Ghost Rider
by TheEquestrianidiot 2.0
Summary: Make a deal with the devil, and the darkness within us can become a weapon. Wendy Corduroy has made a bargain no human being should have to make, and now the repercussions are coming; in shadow, ashes, and hellfire. Her curse will become her power. Collaboration with EZB.
1. Chapter 1

_It is said that the West was built on legends._

_And that legends are a way of understanding things greater than ourselves. Forces that shape our lives. Events that defy explanation. Individuals whose lives soar to the heavens, or fall to earth._

_These are how legends are born_. . . . -Dipper Pines

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><p>Prologue<p>

San Venganza, Mexico 1944

A full moon shone down on the Rider as he galloped across the barren Mexican desert, astride a magnificent black stallion.

Coyotes, rattlesnakes, and other nocturnal predators fled the sound of the pounding hoofbeats. A leather duster and battered cowboy hat shielded him from the chill of night.

Painful memories pursued the Rider, but he could not outrun his destiny.

There must always be a Rider, Stanford Pines knew. He was only the latest mortal doomed to bear that curse. Like all the Riders before him, he had made a deal, the kind of deal you can't break. A deal with the Devil straight out of Hell.

In his mind's eye, Pines relived that fateful moment when, in a burst of thunder and lightning, the Devil had appeared before him in a desert much like this one. A lean, shadowy figure, clad entirely in black, he had leaned upon a cane as he'd arrived to claim Stan as his own. A crystal skull had glittered upon the head on the cane, its skeletal grin mocking the doomed cowboy.

A second flare of lightning briefly exposed the Devil's inhuman features: black eyes gleaming like polished obsidian from a cadaverous blue countenance.

Stan had known then that his mortal life was over.

To the Devil, human souls were merely fuel for the hellish fires below. But the soul of the Rider was not like the others.

That night Stanford Pines had become the Devil's bounty hunter, condemned to hunt down those who escaped from Hell. And to collect on the contracts signed over to his satanic master.

By contrast, Hell itself would have been a welcome relief.

The murky outline of ramshackle buildings appeared before him. Shaking off the tormenting memories, Stan forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He rode out of the desert into the town. Tonight his endless ride had brought him here, to the remote Mexican hamlet of San Venganza.

Tumbleweeds blew down the deserted streets of the village. Thick black smoke rose from the smoldering embers of burned-out buildings. More smoke billowed from the husk of the old Spanish mission at the end of main street. Soot stained the mission's whitewashed adobe walls. A bell pealed from atop the steeple. Acrid fumes escaped from narrow fissures in the dusty earth, as though there was an inferno burning just beneath the surface. The night wind carried the reek of brimstone.

The Rider trotted on horseback down the main street. Somber eyes surveyed the desolation, searching the doors and windows of the few surviving buildings for any signs of life. Wooden shutters swung open and shut in the wind, the mindless percussion matching the steady clop-clop of the horse's hooves. He passed the charred ruins of the general store, saloon, barber shop, hotel, assay office, and various mercantile emporia. False fronts, originally intended to make the rustic buildings look larger and more impressive than they actually were, now helped to conceal the full extent of the damage wreaked by fire. Iron bars in a window marked what was left of the town jail. An empty noose hung from the town's hanging tree. Spooked by the eerie scene, the midnight-black stallion trembled be neath the Rider. Its dark eyes were wide with fright.

"Easy, boy," the Rider said.

A singed piece of brown parchment was nailed to the door of the chapel at the mission. Stan nodded grimly at the sight.

Of all the deals ever made, no covenant was more powerful than the contract of San Venganza. Here an entire village had turned its back on God and signed over their immortal souls to the Devil in exchange for worldly wealth and power.

But their newfound riches had not been enough for the corrupt villagers.

Consumed by greed and lust, they had turned on each other until San Venganza drowned in its blood, leaving only these smoldering ruins behind. Overnight, the village had become a ghost town.

Now the souls of damned villagers were trapped here, waiting for the Rider to come and collect the deed.

_Let's get this over with_, Stan thought. Gripping the reins tightly with one hand, he rode the skittish horse up the steps of the ruined chapel and snatched the scrap of parchment from the door.

The scorching wind blew against his face, offering no relief from the stifling heat of the night, as it whistled through the empty street. The whistling grew louder as the wind picked up, taking on a moaning quality that sounded disturbingly human. He could practically hear the bloody chaos of the village's final days: men shouting, women screaming, gunshots blaring. The bodiless tumult filled the Rider's ears.

The horse whinnied in fear, almost bolting out from beneath the Rider. He pulled back on the reins, halting the horse so that he could listen more closely to the keening wind and the ominous sounds of the village. A door squeaked loudly as the wind tugged it to and fro on its one remaining hinge. A weather vane spun wildly atop the burned-out husk of the town hall. A clanging sound attracted his attention, and he peered at the dried-up well in the village square. A tarnished tin bucket hung on a rope over the well, banging against the stone housing as it swung back and forth, faster and faster as the wind wailed like a veritable army of lost souls.

The hellish cacophony was too much for the Rider's steed. Snorting and shaking its head violently, the terrified horse reared up on its hind legs. Its front hooves pawed wildly at the empty air. Frantic eyes rolled in their sockets. Steam jetted from its flaring nostrils. Froth flecked its lips. The horse's agitated state said plenty about the evil that had overtaken San Venganza; this particular horse was no stranger to death and decay. It took a lot to frighten him.

The Rider tightened his grip upon the reins, fighting to bring the panicked horse under control. His other hand squeezed the rolled-up parchment and a single drop of blood fell from the scroll onto the dusty ground.

"Easy, boy," he urged his steed, but the night continued its conspiracy to drive the horse nearly out of its mind. A swinging door squeaked, a shrill sound cutting through the darkness. Shutters clattered against their frames over and over. The church bell rang out slowly. The metal bucket battered itself against the brick sides of the well, while, above everything else, the sulfurous wind shrieked like the damned. Noisome black fumes erupted from the cracked and barren earth. Fresh blood dripped from the dry brown scroll in the Rider's fist.

The tangy smell of the blood, on top of the noxious smoke and brimstone, only added to the stallion's alarm. Stan's horse worked himself into a lather. Striking hooves carved out deep divots in the packed ground as the horse reared up repeatedly, all but unseating the Rider. He grabbed onto the pommel of his saddle.

_I've seen enough_, Stan decided. Tucking the bleeding scroll into his boot, he snatched a rawhide bullwhip from his saddlebag and cracked it loudly above his head. Silver spurs dug into the horse's sweaty flanks. Time to get the hell out of here.

Stan's horse hardly needed any encouragement. At a thunderous gallop, it raced out of San Venganza, leaving the accursed village behind. Dust clouds rose in the horse's wake. The echoes of the speeding hoofbeats soon died away.

Behind them, the smoking ruins of the dead village smoldered in the moonlight. The eventual crash of col lapsing timbers went unheard. Nothing remained to watch the fiery ashes grow cold and still.

Nothing except for the moaning wind.

He found the Devil waiting for him in the desert just outside the village. The Devil held out his hand, hungry for the thousand souls. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation, as thunder crashed overhead and lightning flashed on the horizon.

No.

The power of the contract was so great that the Devil must never get his hands on it, and damn the consequences. Stanford's own hand erupted into flame, instantly burning away his calloused mortal flesh. Bony fingers hung onto the contract, yanking it back from the Devil's fingers.

More flames spread over rider and steed alike, turn ing them into burning skeletons, aglow with hellfire. Cracking his whip once more, the Ghost Rider galloped away into the darkness, determined to do what only he could do: outride the Devil himself.

"No!" The Devil raged. He limped forward on his cane, but the Rider was already beyond his grasp.

Stan heard the Devil's anger echo behind him as he rode like a phantom across the desolate moonlit waste land. The tail of his long coat flapped behind him like a cape. He resolved to hide the dreadful contract some where far away, where it would never find the Contract.

Stanford Pines could never imagine that, many years hence, someone even worse than the Devil himself might come to collect.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to EZB for all the help with this chapter and story! You rock, man. As always we own nothing._

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><p>Summer jobs were supposed to be easy. Easy enough for the average high school student to get by while making some cash to slip in their pockets. If this was in the job description of all summer positions, Wendy Corduroy hit the jack pot.<p>

She worked as sales clerk for the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls, a terrible tourist trap in the middle of no where, Oregon. The beginning of the summer had been, to her pleasure, slow and uneventful. Her friends would hang out after work, or during her actual work hours if she could manage to sneak out without detection.

Stanford Pines, the proprietor and owner of the establish ran the business with professionalism of a con-man. He didn't care what it was Wendy was doing as long as she was on post. That post being behind the counter in the gift shop in the rickety, wooden building that was the Mystery Shack.

Summer had recently decided to pick up the pace. Out of the blue, two of her boss's relatives decided to stay for a summer. They were a few years younger than Wendy, twins by the names of Dipper and Mabel. Brown haired and barely to her shoulders in height, Wendy thought little of them other than her usual causal friendly indifference.

That started changing as the days passed. These twins were something else. Mabel was endless energetic and boundlessly passionate. She was impulsive and happy and positive and continuously boy-crazy for a twelve year old. Her brother completed the complete opposite spectrum. He was thoughtful, inquisitive, and looked constantly tired. He held the air of a boy who wanted to be older already, and used whatever smarts he could to prove it. It was rather adorable for Wendy; these two were fun to hang around.

The step from friendly acquaintance to full blow friend happened shortly after an incident where Wendy and her friends had the twins tag along into an abandoned convenience store. Two angered spirits of dead owners cursed and attacked the teenagers, and it hadn't been until Dipper, desperate to prove his worth to her gang and, she would look back with a grin, prove his worth to her, stepped to the ghostly apparition and explained his age. The ghosts permitted them to leave after the poor twelve year old gave them a small dance, complete in a lamb suit. Wendy hadn't forgotten that.

Weeks had passed since that incident. Now the twins and Wendy hung out together mutually and almost without thought. Soos, the handyman to the Mystery Shack and Wendy's only co-worker, also joined in on the fun. The four had journeyed together, fighting to stay alive in these crazy adventures in a woods teeming with supernatural forces. Wendy had battled a mimic of herself, and with the help of her new friends, defeated the shape-shifting monster.

Today would be one of those days. Wendy had been told by Dipper that at the end of the afternoon, he was going to try something he had discovered, and wanted everyone where. Wendy played as she usually did, cool and calm. She was down to earth, and hid her excitement.

Today could be another life-changing experience.

"Hey, Stan," Wendy called from her post, packing up her things as she glanced towards the inner workings of the Mystery Shack.

"Huh?" The older man, roughly sixty with a consistent dark grey five o'clock shadow popped his head around the corner.

"I'm heading out for the day," Wendy told him as adjusted the strap for her shoulder slung pack.

"Oh, yeah. You have a life or whatever," Stan rolled his eyes, "fine yeah. You hanging out with my niece and nephew today?"

"Yup. Woodland exploration," Wendy said with a small grin, allowing some of her excitement to come to surface.

"Ugh. They're going to get someone hurt if they keep doing this," Stan grunted and approached the cash register. As it slid open and he began to count the money absentmindedly, he added, "don't get anyone killed."

"Pfft, stop worrying so much," Wendy said as she turned, heading outside, "see you tomorrow!"

Wendy felt the wood below her fall away as she leapt from the porch outside the gift shop to the dirt ground. Her bike rested next to the outdoor couch Stan had always let sit outside, and she leapt atop it, and with a few peddles to get the momentum going, she started rolling through the woods, ignoring the winding trail that would lead back to town.

She was rather good at riding now. Living in the woods while constantly riding your bike make you damn well impressive when it came to sharp turns and evasive maneuvers. She weaved and ducked around trees impressively, unimpressed with their clustered nature. Under the image of a tall, thing, gangly red headed teen, there was an impressive spirit and powerful woman.

Ahead in a clearing the three stood, talking to one another. A grin slip her lips as she smiled, her eyes locked on her friends.

"Hope you all didn't start without me," Wendy called as her bike passed the last tree before the break in dense forest.

"Wendy!" Mabel cried, running to her as the bike turned and slid to a stop.

"Sup dude," Soos called, lifting a hand to wave to Wendy.

"Hi Wendy!" Dipper grinned as he also turned to her.

"Hey Mabel," Wendy rubbed Mabels head quickly, ruffling her hair gently. The big brown eyes on Mabel darted to the now stationary bike, and Wendy didn't even need to hear a question, "go ahead, hop on."

"I will be an unstoppable bringer of justice!" Mabel declared as she hopped on, and started riding the old metal bike in circles. "Vrrooom!"

"So, what's the deal today?" Wendy asked as she removed her helmet, walking over to her coworker and Dipper.

"Oh, man," Soos excitedly began, "Dipper found this crazy cool spell thing."

"It's a summoning ritual for a familiar," Dipper said, flipping out his journal before them. Wendy gave the book a quick glance as the pages turned between his fingers. That thick text of the paranormal had caused and solved a lot of trouble over the summer. She wondered quietly to herself what kind of excitement it would bring. Dipper continued once her found the page, "here, it says 'used by witches and wizards alike, the familiar is a powerful tool for explorers of the arcane arts'. There's something else written here, but it was scribbled partially out and also, eh," Dipper grimaced, and turned the book to show, "looks like something red was spilled on it."

"Well that's a great sign! He wrote it while eating spaghetti and sauce!" Soos nodded as the two looked at the dark material stained on the sheet.

"So what do we do with it? Is it just something we summon?" Wendy asked, her hands in her pockets, carefully keeping an eye on Mabel, who was making faster and faster circles behind her.

"We need an object to will it to come," Dipper explained as he looked into the book, "some small object that will make a particular shape of familiar."

"Anything?" Wendy asked.

"I think if it's natural, it'll be better," Dipper clarified. Wendy shrugged and looked behind her. A long stick sat on the ground, and she lifted it up, and turned to Dipper, who noticed, "I think that'll do. Mabel-"

"I'm coming for you, scum of the earth!" Mabel roared as she made one more turn with the bike. It wheeled out of control and she hit a rock with the wheel, flying ahead. "I'm okay!" she declared as she lay on the ground, sprawled out.

"Mabel, we're going to do the spell!" Dipper told her. Mabel gasped and rushed over, brushing off the dirt from her thick sweater. The four made a circle around the stick. Dipper lowered his hand to be above the center object, and cleared his throat.

"Spiritus servum meum," Dipper read aloud, commanding the stick with his best authority, "et tuum est imperium! Sed consurge!"

There was a rumble in the ground. The four looked to one another. Without a warning, a small exploded before them, a blue colored and small transparent dog that left a trail of wisps as it spun around, looking for something. It's eyes found Dipper, and it sat, nudging the stick to him.

"Bind me," a small voice floated from the pup of a dog, small beady eyes against the square-shaped frame.

"Bind... you?" Dipper repeated.

"That's easy!" Mabel said, reaching for the stick on the ground behind the blue familiar, "Fetch!" Mabel cried, throwing the stick above Dipper's head, who flinched slightly. The dog remained still, staring at the boy.

"Bind me."

"What does it mean?" Wendy asked, the sound of the dog slightly more serious than previous.

"I don't know," Dipper lifted the journal to his face, scouring the notes, "didn't say anything about binding."

"You do not know what I am, boy?" the small creature asked, the ephemeral voice growing deeper, "I am a being of energy, summoned to serve a master of power for which glory will be gifted to me for my services. Now, bind me."

"How?" Dipper tried politely, asking the dog before him. A small discharge of static from the dog struck the ground next to him, and the four backed away.

"What do you mean 'how'?" The dog demanded, his teeth baring as he stood on his four legs, his body size increasing and his color shifting from blue to red, "I am a familiar, only to be summoned for those who can use me? Are you not a powerful wizard!?"

"I-uh-" Dipper stuttered.

"He sure is!" Mabel declared, running to her brother's side. "Watch this! Dipper," Mabel faced him directly, "guess what I'm thinking of?"

"Uh... cats?" he asked with uncertainty.

"Ex-catly!" Mabel called loudly, and faced the still growing dog, "see? Total wizard."

"ENOUGH!" the hound, now the size of a large bloodhound, shouted and stood on it's hind legs, "you have made a mockery of me! Summoning me on a whim? What sort of powerful manner of sorcerer are you!?"

"Hey, man, chill!" Wendy called, "they were just messing around! It's nothing personal!"

The bears sized astral dog had changed forms. It held the proportions of a man, with thick, strong muscular legs and torso with similar arms. It's head changed, becoming more angular and its teeth growing long and pointed. The four watched as it's color faded from a bright red to a deep crimson, and black vapors rose from it's outline.

"Okay, missed something," Dipper scrambled to read the blotted out journal as best he could. "Familiars are, uh, dangerous? I think it says dangerous-" Dipper shouted as the monster howled at the sky, shaking the air around them, "something about needing a tether to contain them!?"

"Do we need rope? I have rope!" Soos shouted as the four continued to move away from the huge beast.

"A spell of some sort! Great!" Dipper groaned as he flipped through more pages, looking for a counter-spell or some matter.

Wendy had only a second to react- the monster whirled its head through the air, and locked onto Dipper. She was already running towards him and his sister before the beast lunged at them. As Mabel shouted and the two screamed, Wendy slammed herself into the two of them flattening them to the ground just as the monster ran over them, just barely missing them with its huge jaws.

"Are you two okay?" Wendy demanded as she quickly got up, watching the monster run towards the woods.

"I've been better," Dipper admitted, who's face was slightly red. Wendy noted into her mind that while life and death called for instant reactions, maybe smothering the poor kid with her chest as she slammed them both to the ground may lead to awkwardness later on. Dipper grunted as he rose up, with help from a hand from Wendy, "we have to stop it!"

"Dang right we do!" Soos added, "any ideas? I still have that rope."

"I don't think rope will stop something that big. Dipper," Wendy turned to the kid, "tell me we can just zap this sucker away."

"I'm working on it," Dipper said, scanning the same page as before, desperate for answers.

Wendy turned her gaze to follow the path of the summoned monster. It was leaping away, towards a thick growth of large pines. Something in her mind told her that wasn't a good sign however. The direction she faced, the way the monster was running, something seemed bad about it.

"Wait a second," Wendy thought out loud, "that's the direction towards town. But before town," Wendy started walking ahead, "it has to hit the sapling grove. And before that it has to hit the... oh no."

"Wendy?" Dipper asked.

It was running straight to where her brothers were all gathered, at the lumber mill.

Little to no thought passed in her mind as Wendy spun around, clutched her bike's handlebars and lurched forward, peddling faster than she had ever in her life.

"Hey! Wendy!" the others called behind her. She could hear the frantic shouts behind her, warning her not to stray ahead, or to not fight it without them, but it didn't matter. That thing was heading straight for her stupid, overly testosterone filled family of manly men. And she wasn't entirely sure about this spectral monster, she was sure it wouldn't be a matter of punches that would stop it.

The trees zipped by her, branches whipping through the air as she passed them, pushing so hard on the bike to move forward she almost forgot the breath. The monster was just a few hundred feet ahead of her, bounding on its fours like a wolf-man should. It didn't seem to notice, or care to notice her as she tried passing it. Distanced gained, she rode out of the woods, and then noticed she was on the hill just before the sapling grove. Her bike skidded and collapsed below her. She wouldn't let the destruction of her bike get in her way though.

Wendy leapt off it, scrambling to keep her feet upright and her momentum forward. Her billowed past her as she ran, her feet pounding in her boots as she crushed twigs under her harsh running steps, propelling the redhead onward. It was passing her now, and made to swipe at her with its arm. She barreled aside, running into a sapling harshly, falling over it. She had twisted an ankle in the collapse and painfully she pushed herself back up, forcing herself to forgo the pain.

The familiar was crashing through the saplings, uprooting them as it charged onward towards it's destination. The saw mill was just ahead, and she could already see three figures working as best they could, all with the same red hair.

"Guys! Get away from here!" Wendy screamed, waving her arms above her head as wide as she could, stumbling closer to the sawmill. The three brothers turned to her, and then the crashing familiar, snarling and growling at them like a predator should. The screamed, stumbling away, the eldest rushing ahead. "JUST RUN! RUN AWA-"

Her breath was gone. The massive dark creature had swung it's arms out in a huge, sweeping back handed strike. Wendy flew through the air, unrestricted by the coils of gravity or her own standing. Her flight was ended by a lone tree, and she crumbled roughly to the ground. Pain was not much to Wendy, but the impact and sheer force that cracked against her back was more than she had been prepared for.

Her head spun. Her breath was sharp. She was no longer certain where she was. Then she saw it approaching her, snapping its jaws hungrily and angrily. Beyond it, her brothers called to her, desperate to help her. They were strong, sure, but this thing was a godly animal, something more dangerous than the gang had expected.

Wendy waved them away, refusing to let them come closer. No one else would be hurt if she could play the target. She could get up and hobble away, drawing it with her, away from her family. Anywhere but here.

A shadow passed above the familiar. Wendy gasped, and the familiar turned just in time for its snout to be smashed. A log had been lifted up and crashed down upon. Daniel 'Manly Dan' Corduroy held the other end of the log with both hands, heaving as he started to lift the log back up, the creature shaking the impact off like a bothersome fly.

"WENDY!" her father bellowed, "GET YOUR BROTHERS OUT NOW!"

Her mouth moved, but air hadn't followed. She still struggled for breath, and tried to stand up. She could feel the weight of her feet pushing her up, a struggle for control of her vertical ascension.

Her father went for another strike with the log, groaning loudly as he lifted it back up and slammed the tree down on the beast. It stepped aside this time, howling at the redheaded lumberjack. Manly Dan would not end it there however. With a twist of his shoulders, he spun and slapped the end of the log against the monster's face, having it stumble aside.

The damage was minimal though. Manly Dan didn't have much of a chance to step back as the beast approached, its large steps shaking the earth loudly. The lumberjack swiped again, but the Familiar caught it, and splintered the four foot diameter log in its grasp before pulling it out of his grasp. Daniel Corduroy was now the receiver of the wooden club.

The Familiar slammed the entire log onto the poor lumberjack, throwing him and the wood some sixty feet away. Sprawling onto the ground, Manly Dan stumbled back to his feet, gasping for air and holding his ribs. The Familiar saw little to no pity, stomping over to him, and slamming its fist into his chest. The redheaded man crumbled to the ground, but continued to rise, still ready to put up a hell of a fight.

Wendy watched, her brothers screaming for their dad to fight as best he could. She wasn't as optimistic, praying as much as she could to the powers that be for her dad just to live through this encounter. He was doing his best alright- the man was built like an ox. He took these tree-snapping strikes like a true champion, but bruises and blood were starting to appear across his entire figure. He was still flesh and blood, and the being was something otherworldly.

"Wendy!" a distant voice called to her. She dared not look away from her father, and then a pair of hands took her gaze away. Dipper and Mabel checked on her, and she blinked. She remembered they were there now.

"I can stop it!" Dipper told the others as he leapt up from Wendy, running over towards the beast. Wendy blinked again. She wasn't able to stand, and she was starting to loose sight. There was this sore throbbing somewhere in her mind, like an ache she couldn't quite make out.

The shadows creeping in, the last thing she saw was the monster pummeling her father, and Dipper screaming to the sky, reading from his book. As her eyes closed and she faded into nothingness, there was a blast of blue light again.

"Miss Corduroy?"

Air filled her lungs instantly. Wendy shot up, still by the tree. She looked around. A pair of ambulances had appeared, their lights causing her pain as she squinted her eyes.

"What... how long was I out?" she asked, looking at the feet of a paramedic kneeling to her, addressing what she thought was a bandage over her head.

" About two hours. You have a mild concussion, but if you stay off your feet, nothing serious should come of it- hey!" the Paramedic protested as Wendy pushed herself to stand up. "That wasn't a challenge! Ma'am, please, just-"

"Where's my dad?" Wendy demanded, staring at the ambulances. The paramedic gave her a long, studious look.

"He's injured. We're taking him into emergen-"

Wendy pushed past the person, only stumbling once as she ran past him. Concussion be damned, she wouldn't let a small bump to the head stop her now. Soos and Mabel sat dejectedly next to an Ambulance, and as she passed they tried calling to her. Nothing matter. She now saw her brothers, crowded around the back of an Ambulance. She ran to them as they climbed in. There wasn't enough breath in her lungs to call to them as the doors closed and the Ambulance rolled away, leaving her heaving in its wake.

"Wendy?" a timid voice asked. She turned, and there was the small twelve year old responsible for unleashing the monster. He stood, his eyes wide as he stared at her. He clutched his hat between his hands, nervously clinging to it with clammy fingers. "I-I didn't mean-"

She turned away, looking to the other ambulance. With the same willpower that drove her to ignore her dizziness, she commanded her legs to continue. She would get to the hospital, huge bill for the ride or not. She would not let the fates decide the fate of her father and she not be present. She climbed into the back, the paramedic carefully following her and closing the door. She looked back as the last door closed, Dipper walking up behind it. His spirit was broken, and she saw his lips for the words "I'm so sorry".

She nodded and gave a half-hearted wave. The gears cranked, the engine flared and roared to life as the wheels spun and the vehicle sped forward. She couldn't blame the kid. She wouldn't. But there was a darkness, an anger. And if she could put it on someone, maybe it would be that poor, helpless twelve year old that just wanted to impress her.

• • •

Wendy leaned forward, resting her head upon her hands. In an instant, life had gone up in flames. Metaphorically speaking. She knew that the young boy had meant well, but it still hurt. She groaned out loud, accidentally waking her father, who lay in bed bandages covering his head and face. Dan stirred in his bed. His bleary, bloodshot eyes found his daughter.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's late," Wendy said, unsure of what else to say. She got up to walk out of the room.

"Where ya' goin'?" Dan called after her. A coughing fit struck without warning, causing Wendy's dad to double over in his bed. He pressed a soiled rag to his lips while he hacked up a load of bloody phlegm. Crimson spots showed through the fabric.

"Nowhere, Dad," Wendy murmured, more to herself than her father. The white walls of the hospital room closed in on her like a prison. "I'm going nowhere."

• • •

A thunderbolt split apart the night sky as carny roustabouts scurried to strike the tents before the storm hit. Tarps went up over the carousel and other rides. Food stands and game booths were battened up. Hanging strings of twinkle lights added a deceptively festive flavor to the scene.

Amidst the bustling activity, no one noticed a solitary stranger strolling down the deserted midway.

The Devil took his time, unconcerned by the approaching tempest. Tall and deathly pale, he calmly took in the sights and sounds of the unraveling Gravity Falls carnival. His long black coat flapped behind him like a magician's cape. Yellow hair, the color of fool's gold, was slicked back away from his high forehead. He walked with a slight limp, the legacy of a bad fall a long time ago, and he swung a polished silver walking stick before him. A crystal skull, its vacant sockets gaping above a skeletal grin, adorned its top. The macabre ornament reflected the twinkling lights strung along the midway.

Walking past the various rides and sideshow booths, he paused in front of the carnival funhouse. A cartoon devil, complete with horns and pitchfork, was painted above the funhouse entrance. A forked tail and hooves completed the portrait.

Amused, the Devil chuckled quietly to himself before continuing on his way. The lights on the midway blinked out, one by one, as he passed beneath them, creating a path of pitch-black darkness in his wake.

Wendy walked outside, exiting the hospital. She was left wondering what would happen to her family should anything happen when sudden chill descended over parking lot where she stood alone. Her goose bumps returned as the temperature outside seemed to drop fifty degrees in a matter of seconds. Wendy's breath frosted before her lips and she stared dumbfounded at the icy puffs. What the hell? She thought in confusion. Storm or no storm, this didn't make sense. It's August in Oregon, for God's sake.

"Wendy Corduroy."

Still puzzled by the inexplicable cold snap, she turned to see a stranger standing in the doorway of the entrance of the hospital. A long black coat cloaked the mysterious figure's bony frame. Dark blue eyes seemed to shimmer in the darkness, like a cat's. Jeweled rings glittered upon his fingers. More gems stud ded his shirt and sleeves. Although he looked to be in his sixties, the man had a full head of bright blond hair.

Wendy was pretty sure she had never seen this guy before.

"Yeah?"

"I caught what happed today," the stranger said. His mild voice had a cultured air. "I wanted to convay my sympathies and hope that everyone is ok."

"Oh," Wendy replied uneasily. She was getting kind of a creepy vibe from the guy. "Thank you."

He turned back toward the bikes, hoping that was all the stranger wanted.

"That was quite an impressive feat of strength you showed today. I was impressed. With the hit that you took, I honestly expected you to be laying right next to your father. With as much will that you have, maybe you could work for me one day," came the reply.

A job prospect? This piqued Wendy's interest. No matter what happened with her dad, she certainly wouldn't mind getting out from beneath Stanford Pines's old thumb, and the sooner the better. "You run a business?"

"The greatest show on earth." The stranger gave a sly, cryptic smile, as though indulging in a private joke. The chill permeating the air suddenly ran through Wendy's blood. Even though she didn't know this guy, the brief idea of possibly working for this spooky dude made her skin crawl. Her foggy breaths hung be tween them, and it occurred to Wendy that the freaky cold snap had arrived at the same time as the stranger. Maybe Stan wasn't really so bad...

"What's wrong, Wendy? Worried about your father?"

Wendy's jaw dropped. "Wait, what do you know about that?"

"Like I said, I was there when that creature attacked," the stranger replied with a shrug. "Even a blind man could see he's seriously hurt." Wendy relaxed a little. The man's explanation sounded plausi ble enough. "What is it? His heart?"

"Everything," Wendy whispered.

"I'm sorry," the stranger said with genuine concern. "Of course, the pain this kind of thing can cause is awful. The toll on the loved ones." My God, it was almost like he could read Wendy's mind. "Lives are altered. Plans are thrown off course.. .."

Wendy grimaced as the mystery man's words hit home.

The stranger studied Wendy's expression. His feline eyes seemed to peer into the teenager's anguished soul. "I'm moved by your devotion, Wendy." He twirled his cane before him. "What if I could help your father?"

"Yeah?" Wendy blurted, praying that the stranger wasn't just messing with her head. Was he a doctor or something? Maybe a specialist with some experimental new treatment. "How?"

"How's not important. If I could make him better, just like this."

He snapped his fingers.

"Give him back his health."

Snap.

"Give you your freedom."

Snap.

"Would you be willing to make a deal?"

Lightning flashed outside. In the sudden glare, the crystal skull seemed to have changed subtly. Its death's head's grin looked wider and more malevolent. The gleaming teeth seemed longer, almost like fangs. Thun der rumbled nearby.

Wendy swallowed hard. This whole thing was like some corny old horror movie, but she didn't feel like laughing. Is this is for real? Part of her wanted nothing to with the mysterious stranger, but if there was even a chance that the man could do what he said . ..

The words came out before Wendy even realized she had spoken.

"Name your price."

The stranger smirked, obviously pleased by the young woman's answer. Raising his left hand, he swept his finger along the line of motorcycles parked against the wall of the hospital. He dragged out his words as he did so.

"I'll take . . ." His pointing finger lingered on one. "... your soul."

Wendy laughed out loud, suddenly struck by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. _What was I thinking?_, she asked herself, embarrassed by her own momen tary gullibility. Doctor Strange here was obviously some kind of a nutjob.

The stranger didn't seem to mind being laughed at. Maybe he got that reaction all the time. "By sunrise to morrow, your dad will be as healthy as a horse . . . and you will have your whole life ahead of you." He reached into his coat and extracted a rolled-up paper scroll, which he held out to Wendy. Heavy brown parchment crinkled as the stranger unrolled it for Wendy's inspec tion. "It's your choice."

Wendy's laughter died upon her lips. She warily eyed the expensive-looking sheet of parchment. Paragraphs of handwritten text were inscribed upon the document, but Wendy couldn't make out what they said. Is that Latin? Try as she might, it was hard not to take this pe culiar business seriously. What if this guy isn't crazy?

Slowly, she reached out for the paper. Her fingertips grazed the edge of the document, which seemed to twist beneath her touch, giving her a nasty paper cut. She hissed in pain and a single drop of blood leaked onto the parchment before she jerked her hand back. She looked down at her wounded finger. A thin scarlet line sliced across her stinging flesh.

"That'll do just fine," the stranger said. He took back the blood-speckled paper. The thunder boomed over head as the storm finally struck with full force. The deafening blast jolted Wendy-

-who sat up abruptly.

Whoa! She looked around in confusion. The outside of the hospital was replaced with her fathers hospital room in a chair where she had apparently fallen asleep. Sunlight filtered in through the window curtains. Blinking to clear her eyes, Wendy glanced at the alarm clock hanging on the wall. It was al most ten am, and the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

"Damn," she murmured. That was one hell of a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

"An incredible recovery," the head surgeon proclaimed loudly, "unlike anything we've seen here, and trust me, we've seen a few weird things!"

Wendy's eyes bugged out as she and the rest of her family and present attending nurses stared at her father. He was upright. He was well. He was alive and kicking and just as boisterous and oversized for the world built around him. His wounds were closed, his broken bones fixed. All in a single night. Standing up from the bed he smashed the ceiling lamp, raining glass past him.

"Come on!" he grumbled, turning, having his hugely thick shoulders knock over the medical monitor. "Dang it!"

"But, he's okay?" Wendy asked to the surgeon, who was too busy studying the clipboard in his arms to notice her at first. "Doctor?"

"Ah, yes, he's very fine. Healthy enough at least to stand on his feet like he hadn't been mauled by a large bear," the doctor told her.

"It wasn't a bear! It was a giant glowing dog!" Manly Dan shouted indignantly, "bears are just WUSSES compared to me!"

"Although we may want to keep him in for a tad longer- make sure his head is still fine," the doctor added after hearing Daniel Corduroys protest.

"HECK NO!" Manly Dan grabbed his hat as he strode out, nearly knocking over the nurses and doctor who barred his path.

"Dad, maybe chilling in this hospital isn't such a bad idea?" Wendy suggested as she followed his pace easily, the leader in the corduroy children train that trailed behind Dan.

"Wendy, if there's anything I've learned about hospitals is that they SUCK! Only woman and children should be allowed into them!" Dan shouted as he broke out of the main doors, shocking an elderly couple who were attempting to gain entrance, "and OLD PEOPLE! They're allowed too!"

"Dad, we don't have the truck-" Wendy told him with a reluctant smile. As ridiculous it was having to deal with a family of all men who lost the word 'subtlety' from their dictionaries, having him in fine health was really uplifting.

"Then we RUN HOME! LAST ONE THERE IS A SOURPUSS!" Daniel Corduroy shouted as he charged ahead, being followed by his three young sons, and Wendy, who sighed and started walking home.

He was safe. Her father was alive.

She had the entire time walking home to contemplate the strange happens of what she had seen the previous night. It had been a dream, she understood that much. A fear induced dream which had begged for her father to live, no matter the cost. It was stupid to think anything of it more than that. Just a dream.

Then again, her father made a recovery worthy of the title 'magical' and Wendy had hung out around the Pines twins enough to understand that there was no such thing as coincidence with two strange things happening simultaneously. This couldn't just be a family miracle, could it?

Her senses of being watched kicked in, and she spun. Her mind's eye played the scene of the man, his cane and skeletal look approaching her as a ghostly visage of debts to come. She only saw the empty sidewalk leading back to the hospital.

"Wendy!"

She turned back towards her intended direction and found a pair of twins bouncing towards her.

"Guys," Wendy said brightly, catching Mabel's beaming face, "you wouldn't believe what just happened!"

"We saw!" Mabel shouted as she ran to Wendy, "your dad can run! He looks like an upright bison when he's doing that!"

"Isn't it great!?" Wendy cheered as Mabel hollered victory cries into the air. Wendy's eyes caught Dipper, who had placed a incredibly plastic smile on, but his eyes were clearly dead. He looked miserable. "Aw, Dipper, man," Wendy felt instantly pity for the twelve year old.

"What? I didn't say anything-" Dipper started.

"Dipper, its okay."

"But-"

"Dude, seriously," Wendy tried again, more full on forgiving intent, "we didn't know what was going to happen. He's better now, so it's okay."

This didn't seem to please the pre-teen twin.

"It was just luck he's okay," Dipper admitted, hands racing into his pockets. "Otherwise he could be still hurt, or even-"

Wendy moved quickly, putt a hand on his shoulder as she stepped past him. He gulped and slowly looked up to her.

"Stop being such a downer," Wendy told him. "He's better now. So move on from it, right?"

"... yeah, okay," Dipper sighed away a ball of stress in his head, and nodded stiffly.

"Yeah, c'mon bro!" Mabel poked his shoulder, "it's not every day you get pardoned by your-" Dipper's hands shot up to Mabel's mouth, jamming her lips shut.

"She's just being stupid! Ha!" Dipper laughed forcibly, "you know, probably too excited to think straight."

"O-okay," Wendy grinned as she stepped by them, heading home, "I'll see you guys later at the shack. Later!"

Her departure from the arguing twins left her smilingly inwardly. Mabel just couldn't keep her mouth closed about Dipper's helpless crush, could he? It wasn't like Wendy didn't know, the kid was rather bad at hiding his emotional callings. Had Wendy been a spectator rather than a participant in this game of crush on the older girl, she probably could have given Dipper a bit of advice on how to keep it cool under the pressure. Mostly of which just boiled down to being himself.

Walking home was a quick journey. Woods surrounded the Corduroy log cabin as it stood proudly in the clearing. Wendy gasped- there was a crowd of people by her home, chatting animatedly and cheering.

"What the heck-"

Rushing forward, she could only wonder what was going on. She was certain her family would have been home by now, but nothing to the degree of summoning people should have happened. She actually spotted some of her friends, lingering on the sides. Tambry, her usual dyed hair poking by her face as she glared into her smart phone, tall Lee and tanned Nate, the inseparable buds who were responsible for most of the tasteless graffiti around town, and large Thompson, who was timidly trying to get a spot into what was going on.

"Guys!" Wendy called, running over to them.

"Wendy!" The four of them cried, catching her arrival.

"Dude, is it true?" Lee asked her quickly in awe.

"What is?"

"Your dad," Tambry added in her usual monotone, "is he Jesus?"

"What? I... You lost me," Wendy shook her head, no longer certain she was hearing things straight.

"He was supposed to be in urgent care for a while," Nate said excitedly, "and he just got better in one day!"

"People are saying it's a miracle!" Thompson added.

"Don't be lame, Thompson," Nate pushed Thompson's shoulders and laughed with Lee.

"Oh, sorry," Thompson laughed awkwardly.

Wendy craned her head over the crowd. Unlike Lee, who could easily see over the heads of the gathered folk, she barely spotted her father, boasting and flexing his body off, left and right.

"YEAH! That's right!" the lumberjack declared, "back and healthier than ever before!"

"Great," Wendy clamped her fingers over the bridge of her nose, "how long is this going to take?"

"People want to know how he did it," Tambry explained, patting on her phone's screen. "It's kind of the buzz right now."

Wendy sighed and started pushing forward through the crowd. Mild and meek protests fell behind her as she fought her way to find herself before a cheering father figure.

"Dad, what the heck is going on?" Wendy asked her dad as loud as she could. The crowd speaking aloud to itself drowned her out mostly, so she turned to her elders brother. After a stare from his sister, the adjusted his hair and stared back.

"We got back, and they just started coming from around town," her brother told her as best he could, "they wanted to know if he really did just become cured over night."

"He could hurt himself again," Wendy sighed, puffing up a bang of hair that fell past her face.

There he was, proudly thrusting his arms up into the air, cheering with the crowd as if he had done some grand heroic act. He turned around to the home, and lifted one of his large hatchets, holding it above his head. Wendy hissed, holding an arm up, trying to will the fates to be kind. He just walked away from one injury: he didn't need a second one.

"Dad!" she called as he smashed the handle over his head, splitting the axe into to.

"HELL YEAH!"

The crowd cheered with Manly Dan, who easily tossed the broken halves of the axe aside. He lifted a log section this time, and with a similar action, broke it over his head. The three pieces that fell aside, hitting the ground softly.

"WHO'S MANLY!?" Dan demanded from the crowd. The many people shouted back to him, pointing excitedly and shouting his name out of tandem. "MANLINESS CAN'T BE STOP-"

Daniel Corduroy had taken a step forward, and accidentally onto the still thick log chunks. With a strange angle that caught his ankle, and he buckled forward.

Wendy beheld it as the world crawled to a snails pace. Her father stepped forward to balance himself, but his overly huge torso was already out of alignment. He was toppling backwards. Within a moment as the crowds barely had time to halt their cheers of his steady recovery, Daniel Corduroy fell backwards, and onto the axehead behind him, which had landed blade up, facing the sky. A sickening squelch and a gasp followed as the heavy man slammed onto the ground, his eyes shocked and wide.

A stunned silence fell the watchers. Wendy and her brothers stared as a red puddle formed outwards from his back. Her father's mouth twitched and a gurgling sound followed his trembling lips.

Daniel Corduroy was dying... again.

"Dad!" Wendy blurted hoarsely. She rushed to him, her brothers next to her. Hot tears streaked her cheeks. "It's going to be okay. I'm here. I'm not going to leave, I promise." She grabbed onto her father's hand and squeezed it. Gloved fingers were too weak to squeeze back. Her dad's eyes lost their focus. Her breathing grew shallow as her throat rattled. "Dad?... Dad!"

A final shudder passed through Daniel Corduroy's body before he fell forever still. Glassy eyes stared blankly into eternity.

_No! This can't be happening._ Sobbing, Wendy clutched her father's lifeless body to her chest. She pleaded silently for God to restore her father to life, but heaven's mercy seemed very far away. Unable to accept that her father was beyond help, she looked desperately out towards the crowd. _Where the hell is an ambulance? Why won't somebody help?_

Her frantic gaze locked on a solitary figure limping calmly away from the scene. A long black coat and silver cane identified him as the mysterious stranger from the night before. Unlike the other aghast men standing before the scene, he looked not at all alarmed by what had just transpired. As Wendy stared in shock, he strolled casually away. The stranger might have been leaving a chamber music recital, not a horrible human tragedy.

Wendy couldn't believe her eyes. What was the hell was he doing here? Wendy had half convinced herself that last night's unsettling visitor had been nothing more than a figment of her nocturnal imagination. But that was no dream that had just slipped away. If the stranger was real, then so too perhaps was the unholy bargain they had struck in the hospital parking lot?

_I don't understand. He said Dad would be okay. He promised!_

She gently lowered her father's head down onto the ground. Not quite knowing why, Wendy jumped to her feet and took off after the enigmatic stranger. Well-meaning men tried to offer their condolences, but she didn't have time for that right now. Brushing their kind words and offers of help aside, she tore out of the crowd onto the midway. She saw two brown haired twins run up just in time for them to spot the sight of her dead father, and even watch her walk by, trancelike.

Outside the big top, a funereal pall was already falling over the hectic woodland as news of the fatal accident spread through the crowd. Lumberjacks stood in silence in remembrance of there fallen friend. Hushed whispers filled the air. Sympathetic eyes turned toward Wendy, but she wasn't even aware of the pitying gazes coming at her from all directions.

Instead, she desperately scanned the midway for the elusive stranger. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she looked all around, but the mystery man was nowhere to be seen. _He couldn't have gone far, not with that bad leg of his!_ Her eyes peered through the packed bodies crowd ing the fairgrounds, looking in vain for any trace of a long black coat or swept-back blond hair. But she might as well have stayed beside her father's body.

It was as if the stranger had vanished into thin air.

Less than an hour later, Wendy was running through the woods to clear her head, but that did nothing to dispel the teenager's anguish.

Heavy black storm clouds blotted out the sun as she ran pasted bushes and trees and high grass. A hot wind blew against her tear-stained face, ruffling her hair.

But as fast as she ran, she couldn't outrun the searing memory of her father's death-and the sheer injustice of it all. He wasn't injured anymore, Wendy thought furiously. He was going to live!

Fresh tears momentarily blurred her vision ... until a white-hot lightning bolt struck the path directly in front of her. The report of thunder boomed overhead.

In the sudden glare, the stranger was now standing right in the middle of the path.

_Oh hell._

Wendy, startled, jumped back and was thrown clear off the path, tumbling down the hill she was on, hitting the rocks hard enough to break every bone in her body.

Or so she thought.

Stumbling to her feet, Wendy was stunned to find herself more or less intact. She stared at her arms and legs in confusion, seeing only a few minor cuts and scrapes. She didn't get it. If not killing her, that tumble should have at least put her in an ICU. But all she seemed to need was a Band-Aid or two.

She looked about her, realizing for the first time that she had been about to run through a crossroads with out even glancing for oncoming traffic. The stranger leaned on his cane at the center of the crossing, smirking at Wendy.

"You're no good to me dead."

The stranger's sardonic tone enraged Wendy. Forget ting all about her miraculous brush with death, she wheeled around to confront the older man. She threw out an accusing finger.

"You killed him!"

She didn't need to explain who she meant.

"I cured his injuries," the stranger said. "That's what I promised. That's what I did." He shrugged his shoulders. "The rest I left up to you."

_What? Is it really my fault that Dad died?_ The horrible thought had been lurking at the back of her mind ever since the accident.

And worse, was that what the smirking stranger had planned all along?

"You son of a _**BITCH**_!"

Wendy charged. She grabbed for the other man, intending to tackle him to the ground, but, all at once, the stranger wasn't there. Wendy's arms closed on empty air and she stumbled forward, almost falling onto her face. At the last second, she managed to hang onto her balance and she spun around to find that the stranger was now standing behind her. Her startled eyes bulged from their sockets.

_How_ . . .?

"It's time to pay up," the stranger said, "I kept up my end of the deal. Now you keep yours." More thunder rumbled on the horizon. A solitary windmill spun its blades. Buzzards circled overhead.

"You're mine, Wendy Corduroy." The stranger poked Wendy with a finger. She tensed up as a pain unlike any other coursed through her body. Every bone in her body felt as if it were fire. Her eyes bulged in her sockets and her hung open in a silent scream.

A torrid wind whipped up the dust at Wendy's feet. The whirling sand enveloped her. The stranger withdrew his hand and Wendy collapsed to the ground.

"Now, if you could please stay still and quiet," the stranger told her, his feet echoing as he approached.

"Hey!"

The man in the suit stopped. An expression Wendy had not seen belonging to him flashed his eyes. He turned in surprise, only to chuckle. A single, heaving brown haired boy stood, looking between Wendy and the man with a cane.

"What's going on here?" Dipper demanded of the imposing figure.

"Well, company was not expected," the man stated, allowing Dipper to pass by him, watching the boy as he looked back, "was it, Wendy?"

"Wendy, who is he?" Dipper asked her. She struggled to find the words. What could be said? She didn't have the answers.

"I don't know what he is," she finally managed angrily. Dipper turned, staring at the figure as he stood between the two, uncertain of action. "Dipper, what are you doing here?"

"I- uh- just wandered into you," Dipper stumbled as he looked to her. Wendy was certain, just on the luck he happened by and his reaction the boy had been following her, but her interrogation had to wait.

"So now, boy, if you don't mind," the figure pointed to him with his cane, a dangerous glow in his eye as he stared to the kid, "Miss Corduroy and I have business."

"You lied," Wendy spat at him.

"I made no such lingering promises past my offer. What was done is done, and fate can have its way," the man snidely belittled her, digging his words into her brain like sharp teeth from a snake.

"What is he talking about?" Dipper asked to her. What could Wendy say? That she had made a deal with a creature in a dream? And now the dream was real?

"Her soul, boy," the man smiled grimly, "she offered her soul for her father's safety. And a soul is such a precious thing, you see."

"What?" her friend turned to give her.

Wendy couldn't look away from the boy. All the summer she had inadvertently been a role model for this twelve year old, acting as the cool collected friend who could always be depended on. The stare coming from Dipper was not intended for a role model. His eyes pierced her. It was as if she felt all the confidence in her resolution drain away. He looked oddly betrayed; as if she could never have really done this. Was it his job to judge her? Wendy was ready to lash out, demand he not look to her that way.

"Well you did a crappy job doing that!" Dipper turned from her, snapping at the figure before them both. Wendy gasped.

He was still going to defend her.

"One deal for one time is no insurance policy. Daniel Corduroys life was free to damage itself the instant he left the hospital bed. Now, stand aside. Time is of the essence, boy," the figure snarled, no longer taking to his usual pleasantries.

"That sounds almost like entrapment!" Dipper retorted.

"I no longer care what you think!" the man roared, a trembling echo racing from his voice, screaming infernal powers too dark to immediately comprehend.

"Get lost!" Dipper shouted, rooting his feet into place.

The man's mouth stretched open and his feet left the ground. He was levitating there, his arms outstretched as wind billowed around him and with a scream from hell itself, he rocketed forward. Wendy tried pushing Dipper out of the way. Yet there he went, pushing forward, one eye closed, as he stood his ground. The man was inches from crashing into Dipper and then-

The dust devil dispersed as quickly as it had appeared. Opening her eyes, Wendy found herself sprawled upon the ground, right where she had crashed before. Just like last night, it was as though this latest confrontation had never occurred. But Dipper was still right beside her. Him being there confirmed her suspicions- it had all been real. Very, very real.

Empty roads stretched out before them. Once again, the stranger was gone.

"Wendy! Are you ok?" Dipper said, turning to check on his friend.

"Yeah. . . . I'm fine."

"I'm sorry," Dipper suddenly piped up, "sneaking up on you... like that, it was wrong."

Wendy smiled and sat down. "I think you sort of saved my life- err- soul there. I should be thanking you. My own man," she grabbed him in a outstretching one-armed hug, "saving my life. Who'd a thought?"

Dipper's cheeks blushed and he laughed his best as Wendy let him go, allowing him to adjust himself. But the strangers parting words reverberated in the young woman's memory. How could they not: they would be words that would remain in Wendy's mind for years. For good reason too.

_You're mine. . . ._

* * *

><p><em>No, Tambers. I don't think he's Jesus. Once again, I cannot begin to thank EZB enough for all the work he did with this chapter. You are a master! Go read his stories. Go. All of them READZ THEM ALLZ! BASK IN HIS AWESOMENESS!<em>


	4. Chapter 4

The backpack was stuffed with alien contents to its innards. Food, maps, weather resilient clothing; anything that wouldn't slow her down was tossed into the dark backpack. Wendy Corduroy ignored the stretching fabric tightly sewn by the zippers. She swiped her hand and the metal closed with a trademark zip.

Leaving the derelict kitchen, she stalled herself. The Corduroy family had always lived in this house. There was nothing else to it. It had been here since her grandfather's days, and she could always imagine growing old here herself. Now that hollow dream was just a reminder of what she had lost.

Her brothers had moved to her uncles since her father's death. Being old enough to claim the need for personal space came with an advantage. She could pack viciously and as angrily as she wanted. Ventilation would be needed for every second she remained in this building. Reminding her of what she was about to leave behind forever.

Next to the backpack was her axe. Her belt along her jeans was loose enough for it to slide inside, and she slipped onto the hatchet a sleeve for the blade face, ensuring at least she wouldn't accidentally chop off a hand or finger any time soon.

Wendy couldn't consider a normal life from this point on. She needed something else. Her mother had died when she was very young. Her father passed away not a week ago, before her eyes and on the ground right before her. She could almost feel his ghost walking the hallway to the bathroom, where he would have most likely broken each and every thing inside. It almost made her laugh, but her throat closed shut and she clutched the wooden table in the center room.

"Get out," she told herself, "let's go."

Sliding the backpack to her side from the table, she turned and made her way towards the garage. A jacket she rarely used had been fished out of storage, proudly hanging on the closest tab by the door. Swiping it over her shoulder she kicked the door open.

The garage in her soon to be ex-home held on last thing for her. A gift for her that she had to wait until eighteen. From her mother.

But that was before; when she had someone to tell her it wasn't time yet.

Now there was no one.

A large object laid under a heavy brown stained sheet. With a disconcerting grunt, she yanked it over and revealed the beauty waiting inside.

Her mother's motorcycle.

Polished black and maintained by her and her brothers over the years, her father had always intended it to be a parting gift when she left home for good. He wasn't technically wrong. She wouldn't be going to her uncles after all. Nothing related to her would ever give her a feeling of peace. She needed the solitude. To be alone.

Giving it a quick stroke with her hand, she felt the leather seats. It was a danger calling to her. Motorcycles were, of course, entirely noted for being exceptionally dangerous. Not only that, she wasn't even legally supposed to be on the streets. Not finished with high school and being on a bike meant easy pickings for cops. Somehow that didn't even phase her.

She smirked as she stepped over, saddling up in the wonderful leather cushion waiting for her. Her jacket was pulled over her arms and laid to rest atop her shoulders. Backpack roped around her arms as well. There was only one last thing to do.

She hit the switch for the garage door. It had a fifteen second window before closing, but there was no need to wait that long. The moment the engine roared to life, blasting the trembling laughter of flame and fuel into the concrete floors, Wendy got the bike rumbling, and she drove under the door by inches.

The road awaited her. She found herself at the end of the driveway.

Then a compelling feeling washed over her.

There was a longing in her, something of a self pitying mood that had her stop and turn, looking at her house. Giving the house the look she thought it deserved didn't help. She felt like she was abandoning someone.

Certainly her family, that was a given. She didn't want to associate with them, however. There was something else in her mind she thought she was missing. Her friends she had slipped to a quick note saying how she was leaving, but hadn't told them as to how or when.

She understood it. There was another building out there full of people she considered family.

Five minutes of riding through town with little self-concern, Wendy found herself slowing by the Mystery Shack. It was later in the day, and she felt the heat of the dying sunlight strike her neck and back. Seeing the Mystery Shack one last time was tough.

She almost preferred the emptiness inside. At least there wasn't the pain of leaving people behind who looked up to you.

"We're closed!" a voice shouted from the screen door by the entrance. Wendy still stepped off her bike, as the door open and Grunkle Stan emerged, nearly shocking Wendy with his expression. Apologetic. "Hey, kiddo."

"I'm going," Wendy told him bluntly.

"Figured that much," Grunkle Stan nodded to the bike, "can't say I blame you. You have a strategy?"

"None at all."

"Fine by me. Job lined up?"

"Ha," Wendy shook her head, remembering that she would have to shake her love for lethargy, "no idea. Maybe I'll get into competitive wrestling. Or a stuntwoman. Daredevil? Is that a job anymore?" she asked him with a moments thought.

"Sure. It's called being an honest politician- HA!" Stan joked with her. Wendy offered an attempted smile, but Stan read her forced reply loud and clear and cut the bull. "Well...Want to say bye?"

"What?" Wendy asked, remembering her reason for being here. "Ah... yeah. Just before I go."

"Come inside," he waved her closer, putting a hand to her shoulder as he lead her to the door, "nice bike, by the way."

"It was my moms. Been in the house forever," Wendy told him.

"Ah. At least you can leave in style," Stan grinned to her as they walked in. He sounded as if he could understand the need to own something important at a time like this. Soos awaited them, and as he turned to address Stan, his eyes met Wendy's. Wendy couldn't have hoped to count the milliseconds it took for his eyes to water as he approached her.

"Oh Mister Pines! You were right!" Soos sniffled as he ran to Wendy and gave her a hug, "she is going!"

"Yeah, yeah, and she's doing a better job about being a man about it than you," Stan pried the crying handyman off Wendy, "she's just letting us know before she's a ghost."

"Aw, dude," Soos wiped his face with his arm, smearing tears across his cheeks, "Wendy, going to miss you."

"Me too, Soos," Wendy smiled back, easier to do than she had expected.

The rumbling sound could have been thunder striking the stairs in the distance. Yet no, a red-faced Mabel Pines pelted out from the stairs, bloodshot eyes and dripping nose as she ran full force at Wendy, sobbing the entire time.

"Gosh Stan," Wendy groaned as Mabel impacted her stomach, "did you tell everyone I was leaving before I knew I was leaving!?"

"I didn't tell anyone but Soos," Stan said with confidence.

"W-w-we heard y-you come in," Mabel stammered, rubbing her head into Wendy's shirt, "a-a-and we're s-so sad about EVERYTHING!"

Wendy looked to the ceiling. She didn't need this. She didn't want to deal with the weight of someone else's grief tied with her own. Her eyes dared to feel watering, and she threatened them, upon pain and suffering, to not drop a single tear. She had cried enough already.

"I know," Wendy managed, doing her best to maintain calm as she lowered herself to kneel at Mabel, "I just want you to know, I'm going to remember you guys, okay?" Mabel took the words as he cue to again hug Wendy, and the redhead returned the favor, wrapping her arms around the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve.

"Dipper?"

Wendy heard the footsteps pass by her as she opened her eyes. Turning around from Mabel's hug, a young boy hung his head and walked outside. Invitation was not needed for her. Dipper didn't want to speak with her, but Wendy knew better. This would be more than likely their last time speaking to one another. It was now or never.

"Well, I'm off," Wendy said to the others, standing up and giving Mabel a caring pat on the shoulders. "You all keep being you."

She turned and headed out the door. He was no where to be seen outside, but all she had to do was slightly turn her gaze to the left and spot the couch left outside. There he was, faced away from her, his legs tightly tucked around his arms.

"Hey Dipper," she said after a second. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

There was no response. He shifted a little, looking into the couch more.

"I don't blame you," Wendy managed to tell him, "for any of it. How could you have known anything about what was going to happen?"

He shrugged. She heard a tiny struggle for air. Wendy wouldn't hold back any more. Several strides closer, she walked past him and finally looked down to him. His face was covered in tears. He almost looked like more of a mess than his sister- at least she ran with heartbroken well. Dipper's features all seemed worn and his eyes were even darker and more tired than they had been ever before. Wendy sat in front of him, stricken by this.

He looked like she felt.

"It's my fault," Dipper admitted.

"No it's not."

"I just wanted... a chance, you know? Show you guys something cool," Dipper explained desperately, moving away from his feet and pushing himself closer to her.

"I know."

"But look what I did!" he exclaimed. "I... Wendy, I totally ruined my life."

Wendy Corduroys brain begged she agree. She was hurt in more ways than a little crying boy could possibly hope to fix. He deserved every single bit of that pain, and then more so for making that choice. The choice that killed her father.

Her heart demanded she remind him of something else.

"You also saved my soul."

Dipper blinked, and sighed, his held aloft hands falling to his sides. His eyes looked to the bike, and he found a new topic.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I don't know. As long as I find a way to feel better than the way I do now, I think I'll manage," Wendy said honestly. Dipper sniffled again.

"I... god," Dipper clawed at his eyes, "this is just... I screwed everything so badly up I can't even think..."

"Dipper," Wendy turned to him, "dude... I wont lie. You did. But you know? If you hadn't stepped in that one time, who knows what could have happened to me. You saved me. In the end, that's what counts."

"Is it?" He turned to look at her. Their eyes met.

Wendy saw the desperation within those hurt, youthful brown eyes. He was so terribly torn between feelings he wanted to explain, words he had to get off his chest, and apologies he must confess. Yet it was his pain that consoled her. He would not reason to be told to feel better, and she wouldn't try any further.

"I guess I'll never see you again," Dipper admitted as he broke eye contact.

"You never know," Wendy argued.

"You're not probably going to be even using your real name," Dipper sighed sadly.

"Maybe. I kinda always wanted a different name. Maybe, like. . . like Roxanne Simpson or Naomi Kale, or something. Though I always liked the last name Blaze. Sounds like some awesome badass or something. Jenny Blaze, maybe. Why do you ask? Ya gonna to come looking for me?" Wendy nudged him with her elbow.

"No... I just would like to know if you're safe."

Wendy repressed a small chuckle. Goddamn it, if this situation hadn't been surrounded by death and gloom and the two of them smack in the middle of it all, that would have been an adorable thing for him to say. But to hell with it all- it was anyway.

"Wendy," Dipper started, a new voice rising in him, "I just wanted to say... I- uh, you know... I'll never forget you."

A crack of warmth spread into her battered and bruised heart. It was just enough for her to remember that there was good in the world, and a huge amount of that goodness was sitting right next to her on the couch.

What the hell, spark of the moment.

She lifted his chin in a quick motion and kissed him.

It was just a quick peck on the lips, but it entirely stunned the twelve year old. She could feel some of the wet of his lips, already so soft now glistening with tears. His body seized up and he stared to her. A grin, a real healthy grin formed on her face. The first one in days. His cheeks flushed as his eyes widened as he realized what he had just gotten.

"Well, now I know you won't forget me," Wendy smiled and poked his forehead, prodding the unforgettable birthmark in his skin the shape of a constellation.

"W-Wendy-"

"Just stay safe and keep your sister with you," Wendy told him as she rose from the seat. The cushion inflated to her departure, and Dipper watcher her like he was dreaming. She was briskly walking to her bike.

"You know, maybe Grunkle Stan could have you stay around?" Dipper asked, leaping off the couch and following her to the motorcycle.

"It's true," the voice of the older man added as he stepped out, "you'd be working for half your pay, but I can keep you around."

"Thanks guys, "she shook her head with confidence, "but this town isn't a place I want to be around anymore."

"But what can you do out there! You're just fifteen and-" Dipper started.

"Dipper, let the woman go already," Grunkle Stan barked, catching the boy off guard, "she's made a choice. Let her have it."

Wendy hopped onto the bike and again turned on the engines. The glorious sounds of a bestial power under her told her she could leave. There was one more look between her and Dipper. He was begging for her to stay. Maybe she shouldn't have kissed him. Then again, as much as an optimist she was, the real chances of seeing him again was slim. He did need something to remember her by. This would be it.

"So long, guys."

The bike spun and she found the glaring sun in her eyes. She wondered to herself if, she had the chance and gas money to do so, if she could have rode into the sun and vanished forever. Be eaten up by the giant ball of burning gasses and plasmas. It would be memorable, cool as hell, and entirely end her pain. As she turned out from the driveway, Wendy remembered something she and Stan had joked.

"Daredevil," she muttered to herself.

The town of Gravity Falls was now behind her and she nodded to herself. The decision was made.

"I can do that."

10 years later

Haunted eyes stared through the face shield of a sturdy crash helmet. The tinted plastic visor reflected a sea of spectators packed into the bleachers surround ing the El Paso motor speedway. Floodlights lit up the infield area in the middle of the oval racetrack. The bright lights overpowered the starry night sky over head, not that anyone was looking up. Thousands of eager fans awaited the appearance of their idol. Concessions workers trotted up and down the steps of the bleachers, hawking cold drinks, Popsicles, and snacks. Fat cats and celebrities lounged in air-conditioned comfort in reserved luxury boxes, while regular folks and their kids crowded the cheap seats. Camera crews stood ready to record the event for the cable sports channels. Anticipation filled the air as the moment of truth drew near. Rising to their feet, the audience chanted in unison.

"CORDUROY! CORDUROY! CORDUROY!"

For a moment, Wendy was transported back to her carefree days. Before the stranger . . . and the Accident. Now in twenty five, Wendy per formed in larger venues these days. A white synthetic riding suit fit snugly onto her lean, physique. Crimson flames were emblazoned onto the suit and matching helmet. The Plexiglas visor hid the emptiness in her eyes.

She sat astride a throbbing XR-750. Painted flames embellished the sport bike's pristine white finish and shining chrome. Her gloved hands gripped the handle bars as she contemplated the jump before her. Thirty-five hard-body trucks were lined up side-by-side between the take-off ramp in front of her and the landing ramp on the opposite side of the track. All in all, she was looking at a jump of over fifty yards with nothing but several tons of heavy metal to cushion her fall if she came up short.

In other words, the usual.

_Time to give the folks a show_, she thought. She pumped her fist in a move that was now copied by hero-worshiping school kids all across the country. Right on cue, the row of trucks burst into flame. Fiery orange tendrils reached for the sky, throwing off so much heat that Wendy could feel the warmth all the way through her protective garments. High-decibel southern rock cranked from the speedway's blaring public address sys tem. Over thirty thousand screaming spectators roared in approval. The warm summer night smelled of gasoline and adrenaline.

Wendy cracked the throttle and the 750 accelerated up the ramp at breakneck speed. She waited until the very last second before tapping the nitrous oxide but ton to give the bike the extra boost it needed to take off into the air above the burning trucks. A battery of flashbulbs went off in the stands. The crowd was on its feet. . . .

High above the artificial inferno, time seemed to stand still for Wendy as she and the bike arced across the sky. Her eyes closed and a rare look of serenity came over her face. Moments like this, when the line between life and death was as thin as a narrow strip of speeding rubber, were the only times she ever felt truly free.

Not even the stranger could touch her now.

Too soon, however, the soaring bike began its de scent. Wendy opened her eyes and realized at once that she given the engine a little too much nitrous. The bike was flying too far, so that she was going to overshoot the landing ramp by several yards. A collective gasp came from the audience as they reached the same horrifying conclusion. Nothing but solid blacktop awaited the diving bike and its rider.

_Looks like I'm in for a nasty spill_, thought Wendy, oddly unafraid. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for impact as she passed over the landing ramp, only seconds before the sport bike crashed nose-first into the asphalt. Fireworks, preset for the finale, ignited on both sides of the ramp, throwing geysers of white sparks into the air. The force of the landing threw her from the saddle. She tumbled across the speedway into the concrete retaining wall protecting the audience from the racetrack. Her helmet's heavy-duty face shield shattered like glass. Wendy yelped in pain, her outburst drowned out by the terrified screams of the spectators. Her entire body slammed against the concrete. She slid onto the ground, lying flat upon her back.

"Wendy!"

Her chief mechanic was first on the scene. Tambry DiCiccio came running across the speedway, breathing heavily. A tall, tan, slender woman about Wendy's age and height, with a long, huge single purple highlight in the front bang of her brown hair and wearing an oil-stained T-shirt and jeans, stared wide-eyed at her friends body. Her face had gone white with fear. For all she knew, her best friend wouldn't be getting up again.

Ever.

Tambry dropped to knees in front of Wendy. Trembling fingers hurriedly pried Wendy crash helmet away from her skull, exposing a mop of untidy long, red hair. If the injured rider was aware of her friend's presence, she gave no sign of it. Wendy's chin drooped onto her chest. Only the whites of her eyes were visible.

"C'mon, Wendy," Tambry pleaded. She patted Wendy's cheeks, trying to get a response. "Talk to me ..."

Wendy heard Tambry's voice coming from what seemed as if very far away. The distraught gear head sounded as if she was rapidly running out of hope. Floating in darkness, barely feeling her injuries, Wendy felt herself slipping away . . . until another voice surfaced from her memory.

**_You're no good to me dead._**

The welcoming darkness receded as her aching flesh and bones called her back to the mortal world. Wendy's eyes rolled forward. She blinked and looked around.

"Is the bike okay?" she asked.

Tambry let out an enormous sigh of relief. She wiped the cold sweat from her brow. "She's fine," she called out to the rest of Wendy's stunt team as the men caught up to them by the retaining wall. An ambulance raced to ward them, its flashing lights and siren going full tilt. Tambry grabbed a first-aid kit from one of the newcomers.

Her buddy wanted to start patching her up right there, but Wendy figured she owed the crowd a better finale than that. "Give me a lift," she instructed her men, over Tambry's useless protests. Wendy winced as the crew helped her to her feet; her ribs felt badly bruised. She waved at the audience, reassuring them that she was all right. A thunderous cheer erupted from the bleachers. Wendy briefly wondered how many of the spectators thought that the crash was all part of the act.

Applause followed her across the speedway as she made her way toward the teams tour bus parked right outside. Every step sent another jolt of agony through her aching ribs, but all her working parts still worked. Tambry kept shaking her head, like she couldn't believe that Wendy was actually walking away from a fall like that. Wendy just hoped that someone was looking after her bike.

_Looks like I live to jump another day. For whatever that's worth._

As they left the speedway, her men had to clear a path through a frenzied throng of fans, groupies, and autograph seekers. The excited horde crowded the stunt team on both sides, jostling each other in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the world-famous Wendy Corduroy. "Wendy! Over here, Wendy!" they shouted at her, trying to get her attention. "Remember me, Wendy?" Posters, magazine covers, and publicity photos were thrust at her, but Wendy hurt too much to sign anything right now. Brazen men - and even a few women - called out their phone numbers, or tried to slip a note to het body guards. A young boy bore a superficial resemblance to Dipper, as he'd looked so many years ago, and a familiar pang stabbed at her heart. She hadn't laid eyes on the real Dipper since the day she left Gravity Falls.. ..

A TV news crew elbowed their way through the fans to meet Wendy right in front of the bus. A logo on the camera identified the crew as belonging to ESPN2. The reporter, whose name Wendy couldn't recall, stepped forward.

"Wendy, you gave us quite a scare." He shoved a microphone in Wendy's face. "What happened out there tonight?"

Wendy walked past him without a word.

The tour bus rolled down the moonlit highway. A trademarked flaming banner adorned both sides of the deluxe land cruiser. Vanity plates read BLAZIN'-1. Mesquite and yucca sprouted alongside the road, which stretched across hundreds of miles of inhospitable desert. Sparse vegetation rarely grew higher than a man's waist around these parts. Prickly pear cacti and tumbleweeds dotted the barren wasteland. A Texas-shaped road sign was posted along the highway. drive safely, the sign exhorted, the texas way.

Inside the bus, the crew passed the time on the way to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Most of men played poker around a long table, laughing over cigarettes, nachos, and longneck beers. Playing cards were slapped onto the table, to be greeted by muttered curses and triumphant chuckles. Plastic chips clattered as they passed from one cardplayer to another. ZZ Top blared from the bus's sound system. Tobacco fumes and dirty jokes filled the air. A television set, the audio muted, was mounted above an open doorway. Coverage of this year's X-Games flickered upon the screen. Freestyle BMXers flipped their bicycles backwards and forwards in the air. Others performed outrageous stunts on ramps and trails.

The crew cheered the best cyclists on.

A few yards back from hilarity, Tambry and Wendy shared a booth at the rear of the cabin. A martini glass full of jelly beans-Wendy's only vice-rested on the table between them. The mechanic's eyes were glued to the screen of her handheld PlayStation Portable, where a computer-generated facsimile of Wendy's was attempt-ing to recreate one of the real Wendy's most spectacular jumps: a double rollover launched from a curved fiberglass ramp. Tambry's fingers and thumbs feverishly worked the console's controls, but not smoothly enough. The CG rider missed the landing ramp by a mile, crashing upside-down onto the pavement in an explosion of fiery red pixels. An unnervingly realistic-sounding crash came from the PSP's sound chip, followed by an urgent voice that Tambry was rapidly coming to hate:

"And Corduroy is down!"

So what else is new? Tambry silently groused. The game, a complimentary copy of Corduroy Airtime! had been kicking her butt for the last one hundred miles or so. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't get past level one. Who designed this stupid game? The Devil himself?

She looked across the booth at the real Wendy Corduroy, who was engrossed in a paperback copy of Zane Grey's Riders of the Purple Sage. On the cover of the book, a lone rider galloped a spotted Appaloosa across a windswept prairie. The dog-eared paperback showed signs of heavy wear; Wendy had a weakness for classic westerns.

"This game is impossible," Tambry complained.

Wendy glanced up from her book. A her trademark trapper cap rested upon her head. She shrugged once, then turned another page. Apparently settlers and range riders in 1870s Utah were more compelling than her best friend's mortal combat with the fiendish computer game.

Tambry hit replay. On the game screen, the CG Wendy gunned her engine and sped toward the take-off ramp. Tambry stared at the screen intently, the glow from the console lighting up her face. She struggled with the virtual clutch and throttle, trying to keep the miniature cycle on track. This time she triggered the Launch command a few seconds later, only to find herself over shooting the landing ramp-just as Wendy had done for real. Another electronic crash sounded from the PSP. The CG Wendy tumbled headlong over the handlebars before smacking into the pavement.

"Oh!" the invisible narrator exclaimed. "That one's gotta hurt!"

The audio mayhem pulled Wendy out of her book. She arched an eyebrow and smirked, a low chuckle escaped her. "Have you tried not crashing?" she asked.

"Have you?" Tambry shot back.

Before Wendy could return to her paperback, ZZ Top fell silent as somebody switched the TV off mute. Tambry looked up to see a color photo of Wendy upon the screen. She nudged Wendy, who turned around in time to catch what appeared to be some kind of TV profile.

"Here at the X-Games," a sportscaster declared, "we've seen big air, big moves, and, of course, big crashes." A montage of gravity-defying bicycle stunts flashed across the screen. "But ask all these riders who it is they look up to, and the answer is a person who's not even competing here."

The film clips were replaced by a series of talking heads belonging to various young daredevils.

"Wendy Corduroy," the first Extreme biker said. A caption identified him as Travis Pastrana.

"Wendy Corduroy," one Mike Metzger stated without hesitation.

"Watching her is what got most of us hooked on bikes in the first place," Nate Adams insisted. "She's the best!"

Footage of some of Wendy's most famous stunts played upon the TV screen. A perilous leap over a pit filled with hissing rattlesnakes. A loop-the-loop executed at over a hundred miles an hour. Riding a tightrope over Niagara Falls. Zooming through over a dozen flaming hoops at Madison Square Garden. Jump ing from the top of one skyscraper to another. Racing around the rim of the Seattle Space Needle. Climbing the elevated ladder of a fire truck into a burning build ing-and out the other side. The "Pit and the Pendulum" stunt, with Wendy narrowly missing a swinging blade while catching air over a bottomless chasm. Weaving through a staged stampede of longhorn cattle. The rocket-powered launch over Copperhead Canyon ...

Each clip evoked a vivid memory for Tambry. She remembered every heart-stopping moment. She figured she had lost a year of her life, and a layer of stomach lining every time Wendy had a close call. It was a miracle her hair hadn't turned completely white by now.

"She's been called the 'the Mother of all Moto-X,' " the sportscaster continued. "She's revered by riders all around the world, despite the fact that she's always shunned the spotlight, refusing to do any interviews. Her personal life is a mystery, the woman herself an enigma even to her fans." The reporter pressed a micro phone on the trio of extreme bikers from before. "Why is she the name on everyone's lips?"

"Skills. Creativity," Mike explained. He doffed his backwards baseball cap in respect. Wendy's face was tattooed on his arm. "But if I had to say what sets her apart from everyone else . . . the woman has no fear."

Nate nodded in agreement. "No fear whatsoever."

"Even when a jump's getting away from her," Travis said admiringly, "she's got this look like . . . like she doesn't care what happens to her."

Tell me about it, Tambry thought. Sometimes she wished Wendy had a healthy dose of fear in her, not to mention the slightest bit of interest in her own self-preservation. Most of the time, actually.

But then she wouldn't be Wendy Corduroy. . . .

Fresh footage, of that crash landing earlier tonight, ran on the TV. Tambry winced, and the guys around the poker table groaned in sympathy, as Wendy slammed into the retaining wall in front of thirty thousand horrified fans. The visor on her helmet exploded outward in slow motion. The shaky video clip, which looked like it had come from some spectator's camcorder, threw Tambry back to those awful minutes immediately after the crash, when it had really looked like Wendy wasn't going to make it.

_That was the worst crash yet_, she thought, _and I've seen some beauts._

Spotting the remote on nearby counter, she clicked off the TV. Nobody objected; Tambry guessed that the rest of the crew had found the crash footage just as disturbing as she had. No one aboard the bus was in any hurry to relive that incident just yet. The guys grate fully returned to their game as the conversation turned back to booze, babes, and whose hand was it anyway? Cards were shuffled and cut.

Tambry plopped herself back down in the booth. She looked across the table at Wendy. Her face held a disapproving expression.

"What?" Wendy said finally, conscious of her friend's scrutiny.

Wendy didn't mince words. "You should be dead after that crash that happened today."

"I got lucky," Wendy said.

Wendy wasn't buying it. " 'Lucky'? My dad had a hunting dog named Lucky and he had one eye and no balls." She didn't expect her words would have any effect on Wendy's reckless behavior, but she had to make the effort, if only for her own piece of mind. "Lucky doesn't really cover it, Wendy. You got an angel watching over you, or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Wendy murmured. A pensive look, that Tambry knew too well, came over her friend's face. A melancholy tone entered her voice as Wendy turned her head to stare bleakly out the window at the forlorn desert outside. The tinted window reflected her brood ing demeanor. "Or maybe it's something else."

Like what? Tambry wondered, but she knew better than to press Wendy when she got into a mood like this. She had known Wendy since they were kids, and was the closest thing the celebrated rider had to a confidant, but there were times when Tambry felt she didn't know Wendy at all. All she knew was that her friend carried some sort of terrible burden with her wherever they went. Tambry had given up trying to figure it out. _She'll tell me about it when she's ready . . . if she lives that long._

* * *

><p><em>Once again, I cannot BEGIN to thank my good buddy EZB for the help he gave me with the opening of the chapter. He is a genius among men. Seriously. If you haven't already done so, go read his story "Return to Gravity Falls". Go. Do it.<em>

_Why are you still reading this? Go on! Read it!_


	5. Chapter 5

It was well past midnight by the time the bus dropped Wendy and Tambry at a nondescript corner of downtown Forth Worth, across the street from a run down Texaco service station. Towering glass monoliths loomed over several blocks of sweatshops, stockyards, and warehouses. This time of night, there was nobody around to see the two women push the mangled remains of the stunt bike up an alley running past a two-story brick warehouse. Tambry wasn't sure she could salvage the wrecked motorcycle, but she wanted to give it a try. If nothing else, she might be able to cannibalize the bike for spare parts.

Waste not, want not, she thought. One never knew when a spare valve or crankshaft might be needed. Especially at the rate Wendy chews up motorcycles.

A service elevator carried them up to the loft that served as Wendy's home-when she wasn't touring, that is. As usual, Tambry was struck by the way the line between garage and apartment had been completely erased here. Over a dozen motorcycles, along with assorted tools and spare parts, were scattered through out the loft, amidst the couch, bar, pool table, and other furnishings. Harleys, Hondas, Triumphs, Yamahas, Vulcans, and Suzukis were all represented in Wendy's collection. Red brick walls surrounded a gray cement floor. Painted black columns held up the ceil ing. Carnival posters hung upon the walls. Rubber tires were piled up in one corner. A box of pistons waited to be unpacked. Greasy rags were draped over doorknobs.

Stepping out of the elevator, Wendy dropped her duffel bags onto the cluttered area of hardwood floor. Tambry wheeled the trashed bike into the living room, parking it next to the entertainment center. The bike's kickstand had snapped off in the crash, so she had to lean it up against an empty stretch of wall. She shoved a couple of heavy cinder blocks against the wheels to hold it in place until she had chance to take a closer look at the damage. Not tonight, though. She was too pooped.

Tambry glanced around at the garagelike ambiance. The distinct odor of motor oil hung in the air.

Wendy strolled into the kitchen, which was located on a low mezzanine overlooking the main floor, and poured herself a fresh martini glass of jelly beans from a plastic canister. Clearly, Wendy's sweet tooth had come through the accident intact.

_I do all right_, Tambry thought indignantly. _Sometimes._

Glancing around the loft, the mechanic's gaze settled on a bike sitting in a corner, occupying a position of honor in one corner of the living room. The venerable Harley, which hadn't been ridden since Wendy left Gravity Falls, had definitely seen better days. A thick layer of dust dulled the chopper's black paint job. The chrome was nicked and scratched in a dozen places. Rust ate away at its chassis. Both tires were flat. The corroded chain looked dry as a bone. Duct tape patched up tears in the leather saddle.

As a motorcycle lover, Tambry was always pained by the bikes sorry state. It was a crying shame that such a fine machine should be neglected like this. Still, she knew that Wendy had her own reasons for wanting to leave the bike alone, even if she also couldn't bring herself to get rid of her mother's bike.

There were lots of things Tambry didn't understand about her friend. Wendy's obsession with meta physics for instance. Stacks and stacks of books were piled up around the black bike, helping to prop the decrepit Harley up. Multiple translations of the Bible, the Koran, and the Bhagavad-Gita were mixed in with volumes on voodoo, spiritualism, witchcraft, astrology, exorcisms, reincarnation, and other occult topics. Post-its flagged specific pages. Tarot cards were used as book marks. Pagan idols and crystal talismans gathered dust on a nearby shelf. Tambry scanned the titles of some of the books. The Necronomicon. The Book of the Damned. The Tragedie of Doctor Faustus. Visions of the Vishanti. The Satanic Bible. The Darkhold for Dummies. . . .

She shook her head. What in creation did Wendy see in all this spooky gobbledygook? What exactly was she looking for? She nodded at the overflowing piles of hardcovers and paperbacks, which threatened to topple over at any minute. "See you finally found a use for your books."

Wendy refused to take the bait. She knew what Tambry thought of her more eccentric reading matter. "You want some jellies?"

"No, I don't want any of your weird candy." She gave Wendy a solemn look. "I need to talk to you about something."

Sighing, Wendy slumped onto the couch. She rested her boots on a discarded engine block. Her glass of jelly beans cradled in her lap, she waited expectantly as Tambry sat down on an overstuffed easy chair across from her. The mechanic had to move a tire iron off the seat before she could sit down. "About what?" Wendy asked. She didn't sound too enthusiastic about this chat. Perhaps she already suspected what was on her friend's mind.

Wendy gestured toward the bike in the corner. "How you're jumping on the anniversary of your father's accident." It had been nearly ten years years since Daniel Corduroy had died in Gravity Falls. "The jump's im possible. You don't need to do it over flaming cars, too." Memories of tonight's near-fatal crash flashed through Tambry's mind. "What are you trying to prove?"

"That it's me," Wendy said.

Tambry didn't get it. "That it's you ... ?"

"Riding the bike," Wendy stated cryptically.

"Who else would it be?" Tambry threw up her hands in frustration. What the hell was Wendy talking about? "Wendy, you know what? You're freaking me out here." She pointed at the heaping piles of occult texts. "You gotta stop reading all this . . . this exponential, comparative religiosity crap."

Wendy acted like she hadn't heard a word Tambry was saying. Her mind was clearly elsewhere. "Tambry, do you believe people get second chances?"

"What?" She had no idea where Wendy was going with this.

"If someone makes a mistake," she said, her tone deadly serious, "a bad mistake, do you think they should have to pay for it every day for the rest of their life?"

Tambry glanced again at the bike. "Are you talking about your dad?"

"Not exactly," Wendy said vaguely. Seeing the mechanic's baffled expression, she offered something more by way of an explanation. "I'm just looking for a sign."

"A sign?" Tambry echoed.

"That I'm alive."

Tambry mulled that over. She felt like she was getting tantalizingly close to whatever was troubling her friend, but she couldn't quite fit the pieces together. "Wendy, what happened way back when wasn't your fault." As far as Tambry knew, Daniel Corduroy had just pushed his luck one time too many. It was a tragedy, but those were the breaks. Wendy's dad had risked his life on a daily basis. One day the odds caught up with him; that was all. "You know that, right?"

Wendy didn't answer. Her face shut down as she with drew into some private purgatory deep inside her. Tambry knew that she wouldn't be getting any more out of her friend tonight. She stood up to go.

"At least tell me you'll think about taking the cars out."

Wendy nodded absently, lost in her own melancholy musings. Her haunted eyes stared blankly into her own lost soul. "I'll think about it."

Tambry realized that was the best she could hope for, although she had few illusions that she had made any serious dent in Wendy's determination to proceed with the big anniversary stunt as planned. Times like this, she wished people were as easy to fix as a broken-down bike. Sadly, there was nothing in her toolbox that could straighten out whatever was damaged inside Wendy Corduroy. _I don't think they make a socket wrench for a guilty conscience._

Shaking her head, she exited the loft.

Wendy sat alone upon the couch, with only her books and her mothers bike to keep her company.

* * *

><p>A bus rolled on down the highway, leaving an isolated stretch of badlands behind. Creosote and cacti cast their shadows onto the arid landscape. A coyote howled mournfully at the moon, while other nocturnal predators prowled the darkness. A murder of crows perched upon the gnarled branches of a mesquite tree.<p>

A wind picked up from out of nowhere, stirring up the dust. The crows cawed in agitation, then took off into the sky, abandoning the desert wasteland as quickly as their wings would carry them. Skunks and lizards scurried for cover. Lightning lit up the sky and thunder rumbled.

Polished black boots stepped confidently onto the dry soil. They strode briskly across the desert, without a hint of a limp. A youthful hand reached down and scooped up a clot of dirt. A silent figure ran the loam through his fingers, sampling it the way a prospector would. The loose soil seemed to meet with his approval.

Cold black eyes-a hunter's eyes-surveyed the desolate landscape. His gaze darted from right to left, scrutinizing his surroundings as though witnessing them for the first time-which indeed he was.

So this is the world, he thought. A night-flying owl swept down from the sky and carried off an unwary jackrabbit. The youth savored the small mammal's terrified squeals. It shows promise.

He watched the raptor and its prey disappear into sky. Icy stars glittered overhead. The vast immensity of the heavens, so very different from his native realm, filled him with a sense of keen anticipation. He was eager to set his plans into motion. He had lofty ambitions where this benighted plane was concerned, and much to accomplish before he fulfilled his unholy des tiny. His father would not be pleased, but what did that matter? His reign would soon be over. A new era was nigh.

Let it begin, he resolved, so that my hour might come round at last.

A jagged thunderbolt split the night. The sudden glare cast the figure's lean shadow across the barren wasteland.

A heartbeat later, the shadow was gone.

And so was the figure.


	6. Chapter 6

The Broken Spoke Saloon was located on the outskirts of town. Raucous music and laughter escaped the open windows and graffiti-covered walls of the dingy biker bar. It was nearly one in the morning, but the party was still going strong. Earl "Big Daddy" Dawson leaned his con siderable bulk up against the front of the building as he took a break from the drunken revelry to get a little fresh air. Rows of choppers were lined up on the pavement outside the bar. Broken glass, beer cans, and cigarette butts littered the front porch and parking lot. Cracked paint peeled off the front porch. A red neon sign flickered erratically. Wooden shutters guarded the windows. Heavy gray clouds threatened to rain at any moment.

A slim blonde waitress, whose jaded expression testified that she'd been around the block a few hundred times, stepped out of the bar. A white Daytona tank top and low-rise bluejeans exposed her pierced navel. A thorny rose was tattooed on her bare left shoulder. A cheap turquoise bracelet jangled on one arm. She handed a fresh bottle of beer to Big Daddy. "Here you go."

"Took you long enough," he grumbled.

Carrie Schultz took his bluster in stride, even though Dawson was an intimidating figure by most anyone's standards. A permanent scowl was etched into his broad, wind-burned face. He had a bald dome and an unkempt beard. Prison tattoos inked up his beefy arms and thick neck. An iron cross rested upon his hairy chest. A Nazi dagger was tucked into his belt. The patches on his leather vest identified him as a full member of the "Fallen Angels," one of the Southwest's most notorious biker gangs. The Angels were heavily into drugs, extortion, sexual assault, and murder for hire. They made the infamous Mongols look like choir' boys in comparison.

What's an Angel gotta do to get some decent service around here? he thought irritably. If it wasn't so damn hot, he'd teach Carrie not to keep a thirsty man wait ing. A couple of black eyes would get the lead out of her butt, he bet. Serve her right, too.

An impatient voice called out to the waitress from inside the bar, so she left Earl alone on the porch. He took a swig from his beer, then peered at the bottle in surprise. Right before his puzzled eyes, the longneck bottle was icing up on the outside. What the hell? he thought, more irked than amazed by this seeming mira cle. It was at least ninety-five degrees outside.

He started to yell for the waitress again, intending to demand an explanation for the frosty anomaly, but was distracted by something else.

Now what? he thought crankily.

A figure was approaching from the darkness. Moving at a deliberate pace, he walked out of the desert toward the Broken Spoke. The neon lights of the bar revealed a slender young man with a pale complexion. He was elegantly-and inappropriately-dressed in a stylish black suit, complete with a dark silk shirt and velvet waistcoat. Slick black hair was tucked neatly in place. Dark smudges accented his piercing black eyes. The tails of his long black coat folded behind him like a raven's wings. His lean shadow stretched out upon the dusty road behind him.

Dawson took him for one of those fancy-pants Goth types.

The biker put the ice-cold bottle down on a window sill and rose menacingly to his full height. He loomed before the bar's open front door, his brawny arms crossed atop his barrel chest.

"I think you must be lost, boy."

Ignoring Big Daddy, the youth closed his eyes and concentrated, as if intent on locating something with his remaining senses. Dawson couldn't help noticing that the ordinary sounds of the desert at night-the flutter of wings, the yip of coyotes, the rattle of a disturbed serpent-had abruptly fallen silent. What's that all about?

The youth opened his eyes. A feral smile suggested that his efforts had been amply rewarded. Heedless of the hulking biker in his path, he stepped briskly toward the bar, although what he expected to find inside, aside from a well-deserved beating, was anybody's guess.

Dawson glowered at the younger man. "You deaf or something?"

The youth headed straight for the door. Earl didn't budge. The intruder's eyes met Dawson's, as if noticing him for the first time. Not a flicker of apprehension appeared upon the youth's delicate, epicene features. He met Big Daddy's belligerent stare with unruffled calm, which only pissed off the biker more. Dawson jabbed a meaty finger into the youth's chest.

"Angels only in there, boy."

The youth's smile widened. "Really?" His soft voice had a cultured air that seemed incongruous at the seamy biker bar.

Big Daddy clenched his fists. "You got a problem with that?"

"As a matter of fact. . ."

The youth jabbed his own finger into Earl-and it sank right into the biker's chest. Dawson stiffened in shock, his mouth opening wide in a silent scream, as a strange ectoplasmic substance flowed into his body, turning his bloodshot eyes and skin a deep shade of midnight blue. The poisonous ichor spread outward from the biker's wicked heart, freezing him in place as this toxin-this necroplasm-infiltrated every cell of his body, flowing into his extremities. His fear-stricken eyes stared into those of the youth, which were aglow with demonic energy, as though he was literally feeding on Dawson's mounting pain and horror. The biker's eyes glazed over. His flesh sagged beneath his skin, which cracked open above his withered muscles and tendons. Rotting from the inside out, he collapsed onto the creaky wooden porch. His tongue turned black in side his gaping jaws before falling out entirely. Indigo eyes dissolved into pools of gelid muck. Faded tattoos peeled away from his desiccated bones. The man's rid ing leathers looked absurdly oversized upon the mummified blue corpse at the youth's feet. "... I do," Blackheart finished.

The party was over. Shriveled blue corpses were scattered throughout the squalid interior of the saloon. Poisoned bikers and their old ladies slumped over tables or lay sprawled upon the sawdust floor. Several of the mummies still clutched knives or chains, not that the weapons had done them any good. A burly blond biker, his skeletal fist wrapped around a cue, lay prone atop the green felt surface of the pool table. Spilled drinks pooled upon the floor, beside discarded dice and drug paraphernalia. Several chairs and tables were overturned. The jukebox had gone mute. A dartboard hung upon one wall, a game interrupted in progress. A ceiling fan spun steadily, doing little to relieve the stuffy atmosphere, which reeked of tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, and just the slightest hit of brimstone. Everyone present bore the telltale blue sheen of the necroplasm. Within minutes, the rowdy bar had become a morgue. Not a soul appeared to have been spared.

Frightened out of her wits, Carrie cowered behind the bar. Mascara streaked her face as she bit down on her lower lip in order to keep from screaming and/or sobbing. She huddled beneath the counter, afraid to make a peep, or even breathe, for fear of giving away her hiding place. The only survivor of the blue-tinged nightmare that had consumed her friends and coworkers, she clung to the desperate hope that she might live to see the dawn.

If she could, she would have contracted herself into a microscopic speck if that was what it took to stay out of sight from the . . . creature .. . who had invaded the Broken Spoke. She crossed herself instinctively.

It had all happened so fast. One minute it was just another rowdy night at the saloon. The Angels had drunk and drugged and gambled and argued while plot ting their next big road trip and criminal enterprise. Dirty jokes had elicited guffaws and groans. A couple of near-fights had broken out, mostly over that slut Marlene. Bikes and gear were bought and sold, mostly depending on who had some ready cash this week, and who was hard-up for bail money. A cloud of second hand smoke, mixed with a tinge of pot, bought every one in the bar a one-way trip to the cancer ward, provided any of them lived that long. Carrie had spent most of her time pouring beer and whiskey down the throats of thirsty bikers when she wasn't dodging horny desperadoes who wanted to play grab-ass every time she came within arm's reach. Sorry, boys, she'd thought. That don't come free. The jukebox had blared nonstop, loud enough to make your ears bleed. Massive quantities of coke and meth had fueled the hard core partying.

The usual.

Then in came this skinny dude with his fancy duds and a face paler than Michael Jackson's. Carrie had figuredd he was dead meat the minute she laid eyes on him; at the very least he was cruising for a serious bruising. But the creep didn't even seem to realize that he was in the wrong place; instead he had just sidled up to the bar and started looking around like he owned the joint. Wild Bill had been the first to get in his face. No surprise there, Bill never missed a chance to kick butt. That's why he had all those assault charges pending.

And why he was the first to die.

Carrie had never seen anything like it. Bill never saw it coming. The creepy Goth guy just reached out and touched Bill and the hardcore biker suddenly turned all blue and disgusting. He was dead before any of his brother Angels even realized what was happening.

But after Bill hit the floor, all hell broke loose. Every Angel in the place came at the intruder, swinging chains and knives, brass knuckles and fists. It didn't do any good, though. The white-faced demon just strolled through the bar, killing people right and left, without even breaking a sweat. He broke Axel's neck with his bare hands, and ripped Bulldog's heart from his chest, but mostly he just poisoned people with his toxic fin gertips. The same blue death that killed Bill also sucked the life from many others the demon got hold off.

Pretty soon, people were screaming and running for the exits. But the stranger waved his hand and every door slammed shut, refusing to budge. Hardened bikers, real one-percenters, were crying like babies, afraid they were going to Hell. The other waitresses started dying too. Marlene pleaded with for her life, like the tramp she was, but it didn't save her. No one was spared, not the Angels, not the staff, no one.

Until only Carrie was left.

_Please, God,_ she prayed, _don't let this devil claim my soul._ She had led a wild and sinful life, she knew, filled with drugs and booze and far too many men. Her rebellious ways had broken her poor mother's heart and scandalized the nuns who had tried so hard to teach her right from wrong. To be honest, shocking the stern sisters had been half the fun at first, before the heavy-duty partying had become the only life she knew. She'd had a child once, a little boy, but she had dumped the baby on her mother the first chance she'd got. Little Mickey was five now. Carrie couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken with him. Maybe his birthday, or the one before that?

_But I can change,_ she insisted, frantically bargaining with God. _Just let me get through tonight and I promise I will turn my life around. I'll go back to church. I'll get off the dope. I'll go back to school. Get a decent job. _She closed her eyes and fervently pleaded for Heaven's mercy. _Rescue me from this monster, and I swear I'll never speak to another biker for as long as I live!_

For a moment, it appeared her prayers had been answered. Listening intently, she heard footsteps leaving the tavern. The front door slammed shut on its hinges. Silence fell over the murdered saloon. Holding her breath, she heard only the steady dripping from the leaky roof. I always told Duke to fix that, she thought ir rationally. The tavern's owner was now one of the cobalt-colored corpses slumped over the bar.

Carrie hesitated, not quite trusting her good fortune. She was tempted to bolt for the back door right away, then put as many miles as possible between herself and the Broken Spoke, but caution kept her hiding beneath the bar, just to be safe. She was no fool; years tending to ex-cons and other outlaws had taught how to look out for herself in tough situations. She wasn't going to take any stupid chances.

_Let's make sure he's really gone,_ she decided._ Give him plenty of time to leave this place behind._

She counted slowly to one hundred, then counted again. Anxious minutes dragged out endlessly as her cramped leg muscles shrieked in protest. Tequila dripped over the edge of the counter above her, pooling on the floor. Carrie stayed put, trying unsuccessfully to recall all the words to the Lord's Prayer, until she felt confidant that the demonic killer had to be far away by now. Taking a deep breath, she crawled out from be neath the bar and rose unsteadily to her feet.

Blackheart was waiting for her.

Carrie opened her mouth to scream, but the black-garbed youth was too quick for her. Clamping a hand over her mouth, he lunged forward and pulled her across the counter. Spilled tequila soaked through the front of her tank top. Her heart pounded like a jack-rabbit's. Despite his slight appearance, the youth was amazingly strong. Carrie could no more break free from his grip than she could have snapped apart a pair of titanium handcuffs. She could only squirm helplessly in the intruder's grasp. A muffled shriek disappeared into Blackheart's palm, which smelled faintly of sulfur.

"I knew you were here," he said calmly. "I could smell your fear." His eerie yellow eyes locked onto hers and set her teeth chattering. The greater her fear, the more avidly his eyes gleamed, as though they were soaking up every last ounce of her terror. "You are going to die now. I am going to devour your soul." He gave her a smile that was not at all comforting. "It will feel worse than you can possibly imagine."

Sheer, unrelenting panic threatened to drive her insane. She screamed hysterically into her captor's hand. _Mickey!_ she thought in anguish, picturing her child's cherubic face. Years of guilt tore at her heart. _I should have been there for you!_ What if she never had a chance to make things right?

"Please . . . don't kill me," Carrie sobbed. "I have a son ... a five-year-old son . . ."

Blackheart nodded in approval. "You will never see him again." His victim whimpered in agony. "Does that hurt you?" He seemed fascinated by her reaction. "I want you to think of that. Keep thinking of it . . . forever."

He took his hand away from her mouth.

Carrie screamed until there was nothing left of her. A withered blue skeleton dropped to the floor.

Blackheart felt remarkably refreshed.

"Angels tossed from Heaven, forced to live on Earth," he observed. He eyed the shabby tavern with disdain. Neon signs and stolen license plates were nailed to the rough wooden walls. A mounted boar head glared down from above the jukebox. A stuffed coyote perched upon a shelf. Profanities were scrawled on every available surface. Blackheart turned up his nose at the general squalor and bad taste of the furnishings. "And this is the spot you choose?"

He smirked at the tavern's mummified bartender. Rigor mortis held the dead man upright behind the bar, paralyzed in the act of pouring tequila into a dirty cup. The liquor had poured into an overflowing glass mug, the excess tequila spilling over the top of the cup onto the cigarette-burned surface of the counter. Shredded military fatigues clothed the cobalt-colored corpse. A half-empty bowl of beer nuts waited to be refilled.

"But you have managed to remain hidden," he con ceded. "Impressive."

He strolled across the violated tavern, stepping lightly over indigo bodies. The looming summer storm finally hit outside and heavy rain pelted the tin roof overhead. Water dripped from a leak in the ceiling, hit ting the counter with a staccato rhythm that reminded Blackheart of the infamous Chinese Water Torture. One of the mortals' better ideas, he recalled nostalgically. Although it works even better with demon's bile.

"Living like scavengers off the scraps humans cast aside, like carrion waiting to feed." His gaze swept the seemingly lifeless tavern. The mottled blue corpses did not respond, nor did he expect them to. "Show your selves."

An empty pair of cowboy boots rested atop a filthy table. A black centipede crawled up onto the tabletop, followed by animated clumps of cracked earth and clay that had been tracked onto the floor by the bar's dead patrons. A thick column of dirt and sawdust snaked up onto a chair, congealing into the figure of man.

Within seconds, a thuggish young man materialized upon the chair. He leaned back, keeping the formerly empty boots on the table. A brown snakeskin coat was draped over his bare chest. His close-cropped hair was the color of red clay. Bulging veins streaked his brow. Yellow eyes gleamed with malice. A heavy layer of grime appeared to cover the man's face and garments, until a closer look revealed that the pockmarked flesh was liter ally composed of dirt, sawdust, and wriggling insects.

"Gressil," Blackheart addressed the newcomer.

The metronomic beat of the falling rain was joined by the sound of a dirty puddle spreading across the floor. The turbid water flowed upward and took the shape of a lanky figure leaning against a window. His vulpine face was as white as a drowned man's. Long, stringy hair clung damply to his narrow skull. His water logged duster was green as mildew. Azure eyes peered out from behind wet strands of hair. He tilted back his head, letting the rain splash against his face like a bar-room baptism. The water did not just run down his face; his face was water. He wiped a runny eye off his fluid cheek.

"Wallow," Blackheart said.

A sudden breeze rattled the wooden shutters as it blew into the room. The foul wind carried a cloud of airborne dirt and gravel, along with the stench of an open sewer. The swirling grime assumed the form of a pale, bearded man with a thick mane of matted black hair. A perpetual gale seemed to rustle his greasy dread locks and fur-trimmed leather coat. His sneering face fluttered in the breeze. He casually lit a cigarette before smirking at Blackheart. The smoke from the cigarette formed a miniature whirlwind.

"Abigor," Blackheart greeted him. He contemplated the uncanny trio before him. These were the Hidden, demonic elementals that dwelt unseen upon the mortal plane. Capable of blending with the material substance of the world, they hid easily from the pathetic senses of the humans. As far as the mortals were concerned, the Hidden could be almost anywhere.

Even a sleazy biker bar.

"The last of the Fallen Angels." He grinned at the demons. "Where you been hiding, boys?"

The three elementals exchanged nervous looks among themselves.

"Why did you summon us here?" Abigor whispered. "We've stayed hidden all these years. If Mephistopheles should find us . . ."

"Mephistopheles is dead," Blackheart declared, cutting him off. The demons stared at him in disbelief. "He just doesn't know it yet."

"What do you want from us?" Gressil asked suspiciously. His raspy voice sounded like he was gargling with rocks.

"I've come to start a New Hell on Earth," Blackheart informed them. "You can either join me . . ." He gestured toward the abundant corpses. "Or you can join them."

Understanding dawned in the demons' eyes. Wallow stepped forward from his window sill. "You've come to start the War."

"But you have no soldiers," Abigor protested. "No army."

"I'll be my own army," Blackheart said, "once I have the Contract of San Venganza."

The demons' eyes widened in surprise, as word of the legend met their ears. "The Contract of a Thousand Souls," Wallow gurgled in awe.

Blackheart nodded. "The souls have grown more powerful with time. In Hell, they'd tip the balance in Mephistopheles's favor. But here on Earth, in my hands, they'll become more powerful than even he could ever imagine."

"But the Contract was lost," Gressil recalled.

Blackheart shook his head. "Not lost. Stolen. Leg end says it was hidden in a graveyard not far from here. You're going to help me find it." He beamed in anticipation. "And then we'll take this world .. . one city at a time."

The elementals grinned back at him, the notion obviously appealing to them.

"Sounds like a good game of mortal chess. Or checkers. Maybe dodgeball! Oh, let's use severed body parts instead!"

The spiritual elementals glanced around. This voice was new. Animated, wild, excitable, and entirely untamed. A small star in the sky twinkled, and a high pitched whine began to grow. Like an insect buzzing closer and closer, the four figures squinted, but Blackheart merely seemed annoyed, grimacing at the coming, unwelcome, attendee.

The star grew and grew, expanding into three equal-distant points. As they grew, the faded and distant light changed to a bright yellow, layered with a brick-like pattern. As it came to appear before them, a single eye, a cartoonish outline of one at least, slowly opened, revealing an inhuman slit for a pupil.

"Who is this?" Gressil demanded.

"Bill Cipher." Abigor announced.

A flash of light later, the triangle became animated. Two stubby black lines for legs drifted under the two-dimensional being that was floating in mid-air before them. Similar thin arms held up a cane, and the other empty arm snapped its fingers, forcing into reality a similar two-dimensional top-hat, which was placed just above the top corner of the triangle, floating just above the point. In total size, he was probably no larger than a few feet across.

"Ah, look, it's the worlds greatest collection of allergy creators!" Bill pointed to the confused elementals, and laughed happily. "Nah, I'm just kidding you angelic rejects- You're are fine. Just don't sneeze on me there, okay drip-drop?" Bill floated forward, passing Wallow, who grimmaced at the glowing creature.

"You must be the dream demon," Blackheart crooked his head aside, examining the sharp edged being. "I'd say I'm impressed, but I feel like saving my lies for another time."

"Oh, ho, ho, I like this guy!" Bill Cipher chuckled, twirling his cane around a finger. "You got an eye for humor, like me! We should party together some time! You like baby-boiling? Of course you do- Who doesn't? Except the babies. But who cares! They're babies!"

Bill laughed at his own joke for a few moments.

"What do you want, Cipher?" Blackheart asked, his patience for this energy being wearing thin.

"Aww, what, a fellow demon can't ruin a private party for a joining force of astral darkness that will reign terror onto the planet? Jeesh, and I thought I was pushy!"

"Make your point, Cipher. My patience grows thin," Blackheart growled.

"Not for chit-chat, huh?" Cipher asked, spinning around the three dimensional demon for a second. "Oh fine, down to business. Wait, can I first do something?"

Bill flew over to one of the blue corpses, and melted into the skin. Within a moment, the hand on the corpse leapt up, still attached to the arm, and began to tap dance with its middle and index finger. Bill's laugher filled the room as the hand continued to dance.

"He's insane." Abigor snorted.

"And annoying." Blackheart added. "Cipher-"

The hand dropped and the perfectly flat creature appeared with a 'pop' before the four again.

"I hear you all are going to have some fun with a little piece of paper." Bill exclaimed. "Sounds like a lot, lot, lotta fun. You see fellas, I exist for fun. I'm the dream demon! I live in a perpetual fantasy and fun is my game. Well, that and coming to dominate all conscious thought through horror and nightmare terror, but that can wait for another day."

"So, you want in, do you?" Blackheart asked. "And you want something from us in return?"

"Want? I'm getting my jollies just from hanging with you guys! Especially you," Cipher turned and pointed to the wind elemental, Abigor, who sneered back. "Look at you: all twisty and stuff. Hil-arious."

"Bill Cipher." Blackheart stepped forward towards the being, his presence made more prominant with the fact that, unlike Cipher, he had feet to stomp onto the floor. "If you want to tag along, you listen to my rules. My command. My word. Betray me, and I'll show you what you've missed down in hell while you've been in your dream-realms."

"Hell? Hah, you're great." Bill bowed his form a few times, in an attempt to nod. "Sounds as good as an atomic warhead. You guys seen one of those before? They're fantastic!"

But before they could reply, a booming voice called angrily from outside the saloon:

"BLACKHEART!"

Naturally, Blackheart thought, undisturbed by the interruption. He had been expecting this.

"Loud voices?! Did someone forget to flush the toilet again?" Cipher squinted at Blackheart.

Heeding the call, Blackheart shoved aside the demon easily and burst through the tavern's swinging doors and strode confidently onto the porch outside. A wicked smile crept across his face as he spotted a familiar figure waiting for him beyond the parked motorcycles.

The golden-haired old man leaned upon his distinctive silver cane, with a crystal skull grinning atop it. The man's long black coat stretched from his neck down to his ankles. Black eyes fixed on the younger man, who appeared to be alone upon the porch. So far, the Hidden were living up to their name.

"Hello, Father," Blackheart said coldly.

Mephistopheles was in no mood for pleasantries. "How dare you defy me?"

"It's my time now, old man." In truth, Blackheart had been looking forward to this inevitable encounter. He beckoned silently to his allies, who remained concealed from view.

"I decide your time!" the Devil roared furiously. His anger momentarily shredded his mortal facade, revealing his true features. Demonic black eyes and shriveled blue skin were briefly exposed.

"Not anymore," Blackheart declared. At his command, the Hidden materialized around his father. They gnashed their fangs as they circled Mephistopheles like a pack of hungry jackals. With the expcetion of Bill, who sat just above Mephistopheles, a magazine in his hands, which he flipped through in a bored manner.

"Did you really think I was going to wait around for your permission?" Blackheart grinned as he stared down the demon before him.

The Devil ignored the fallen angels surrounding him. That he was outnumbered five to one did not seem to trouble him. "You violate the Order by coming here."

"What 'Order'?" Blackheart asked incredulously. "Take a look around. You're playing by the rules of a forgotten game. Nobody cares what you do. Even God's lost interest."

"I prefer violating things anyway," Cipher poked Mephistopheles nose with his cane as he tossed aside the miniature magazine.

"And this preposterous creature?" The Devil swiped at the air by Bill, who floated out of reach.

"No vile force willing to follow my leadership could possibly be turned away." Blackheart told his father.

Mephistopheles limped toward his son. The neon lights of the bar dimmed at his approach. "I've worked too long and too hard. Your time will come," he promised. "But not now."

"You think I want to rule your obsolete Hell. Please." He sighed theatrically. "I was meant for better things than that."

The Devil's expression darkened. "You will suffer for this..."

"Yes!" Cipher cheered above. "Suffering is definitely the best!" The demons stared at the triangle, momentarily united in their displeasure with the loud mouth geometric aberration.

"The only thing I'm suffering from is you." Blackheart retorted.

"OH! BURN!" Cipher roared above, spinning in circles as his hands wove above his shape like noodles.

Black heart couldn't resist the temptation to bait the old man, and the triangle certainly assisted with his endeavors. Emboldened by their leader's show of defiance, the Hidden cackled like hyenas. "We both know you can't harm me here. I'm not like you. I've never Fallen." He sneered at his father's skull-capped walking stick. "And I never will."

Mephistopheles glared at the youth. "I may not have power over you in this world," he warned ominously. "But my Ghost Rider does."

"Ghost-who-ha?" Bill Cipher turned away, and suddenly his yellow frame flashed away from color, and began to flash images. Men on horseback, their steed skeletal and ablaze like their master. Burning swords and whips and pistols bursting molten lead like shots of brimstone itself. "Whoa. That's something I shouldn't have passed by." Bill added as his yellow form reappeared.

The Hidden cringed at the old man's words. Their mocking laughter was cut short. Blackheart was faintly disappointed by his minions' weak nerves, but no mat ter. He did not fear so feeble a threat.

"Of course. The Ghost Rider. Your favorite creation." Blackheart's eyes glowed crimson as a new flavor of re sentment entered his voice. "The power of Hellfire wasted on one pathetic human after another! If you had trusted in me, if you had given me what was rightfully mine . . ."

"It's too late for that now," the Devil interrupted him. He dismissed Blackheart's jealousy with a wave of his hand. "Run along home now, son."

His father's arrogance infuriated Blackheart. Mephistopheles's best days were behind him. Why couldn't he see that? The elements, even Cipher stared to the pale man with dark hair, an answer brewing behind his gaze.

"Send your Ghost Rider," he challenged his satanic sire. "I'll bury him just like I'll bury you, father."

Mephistopheles glowered back at him. Thunder boomed in the distance as, scowling, the Devil dissolved into the darkness. The neon lights flickered back on.

"Well that was fun!" Bill Cipher cheered. "We should invite him to come see our progress each time we get a step closer. He'll love it!"

"You are entirely an annoying creature." Gressil growled.

"Sure, but you don't see me complaining about how I could make ten thousand dreidels out of you, do you?" Bill replied, ushering a rumble from the elemental.

The leader ignored them. Blackheart smirked at his father's abrupt departure. No doubt the old man's pride would not allow him to concede defeat. Well, he thought, Pride goeth before a fall.

As his father of all people should know.

His eyes narrowed into angry slits as he gathered his companions around him. Blackheart stepped down from the porch and turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the bright city lights could be seen from miles away. It was time to get back down to business.

"Let's go to town," he said.

Even with the ceasless commentary from a particular triangle, the marched at their leaders command.

* * *

><p><em>Once again, I have to give my thanks to EZB for helping me out with Bill's part in this chapter. The dude. Is. Awesome. If you wanna read more of his epicness, be sure to check out his stories "The Return to Gravity Falls", "The Hellsing War Chronicles", and a collab me and him are doing called "Aliens" (based off the film of the same name). Hope you enjoyed! Stay awesome, and I <em>_will see YOU . . . in the next chapter. Bye-bye!_


	7. Chapter 7

"CORDUROY! CORDUROY CORDUROY!"

The thunderous chanting penetrated the inner walls of Texas Stadium, reaching the private locker room where Wendy prepared for her much hyped "Touch down Jump." Karen Carpenter's soulful cover of "Super star" played softly over the sound system as she zipped herself into a brand-new red-and-white riding suit. The mellow music helped to soothe her troubled soul. A flame-detailed crash helmet rested on a bench behind her.

She was almost ready.

Despite the excitement of the crowd, Wendy's own mood was subdued. She stared solemnly into the mirror over a sink. Haunted eyes, looking even more apathetic than usual, gazed back at him. It was ten years to the day since her father died. Wendy couldn't help wonder ing if this was also the day that she pushed her own luck too far. The day she didn't walk away.

Would that be the stranger's idea of joke? It had been ten years since she had last seen the stranger, at that lonely crossroads outside of Gravity Falls. Although he had promised to return someday, he had left Wendy alone so far. Wendy realized with a start that she had now spent nearly half her life dreading the inevitable day when the stranger came back into her life, to claim his half of the Faustian bargain they had struck so long ago. Ten wasted years . .. with only the dubious consolations of celebrity to occupy her time.

No wonder she wasn't afraid to die. At least the wait ing would be over.

"Wendy?"

Tambry's reflection appeared from behind in the mirror. She fidgeted in the doorway leading out of the locker room, then opened her mouth to speak.

"Shhh," Wendy said, holding a finger to her lips. "You're stepping on Karen, Tambers." She waited for the last few bars of "Superstar" to play out before looking back over her shoulder at her friend. "What was it you were going to say?"

Looking uncomfortable, Tambry worked up her nerve to speak. "Just . . . you don't have to go through with this, you know?"

Was that what Tambry was worrying about? Wendy didn't bother to answer. Tambry always fretted before a big stunt. Sometime she thought the mechanic would be happier working for someone who didn't risk her life for a living.

"This suit fit alright?" Wendy asked, changing the subject. "It feels a little loose. I like a nice tight fit in the back."

Tambry shoulders slumped in resignation. "No. It's good."

The poor girl looked so miserable Wendy figured she had to say something to boost her morale. "You can't live in fear," she reminded Tambry.

If you can call this living . . .

"CORDUROY! CORDUROY!"

It was almost time to answer the crowd's demand. Cradling her helmet under her arm, Wendy let Tambry guide her through the concrete maze outside the locker room. The bare walls were painted an institutional shade of white. Stadium personnel and security offered them greetings and good luck as they made their way from the dressing rooms. Wendy nodded politely at the grinning well-wishers, but resisted getting drawn into any long conversations. She had over sixty-five thousand fans waiting for her.

"We're up ahead and to the right," Tambry explained.

Wendy took her word for it. After years on the road, all these backstage areas looked the same to her. She trusted Tambry to tell them apart.

A woman in a crisp blue blazer fell in beside them. "Hi. Amy Page. Event publicity." A plastic name badge confirmed her I.D. "I was wondering if Miss Corduroy had time for a quick interview."

Tambry gave her an incredulous look. "Lady, I don't know how long you've been doing your job, but Wendy doesn't really do interviews."

"Not even for an old friend?" a husky voice intruded.

Wendy stopped dead in her tracks. Her brain, which had barely registered the young publicist's presence, suddenly snapped to attention. Even though it had been ten years since she last heard that voice, she recognized it at once.

Dipper. Dipper Pines.

He stood at the far end of the corridor, silhouetted by the stadium lights outside. Cool brown eyes flashed with strength and confidence. Time had been more than kind to him; maturity had only enhanced his natural strength and magnetism. No longer a small, shy adolescent, he was now a man to be reckoned with.

Distracted, Tambry didn't pick up on Wendy's stunned reaction. "Look, kid," she began, "no offense, but-"

"No! I wanna talk to him," Wendy said impulsively.

Tambry stared at Wendy in disbelief. She couldn't have looked more surprised if Wendy had suddenly traded in her Harleys for a Prius.

The world famous daredevil stepped out of the crowd, towards the brown haired boy before her. Each step showed her just how much he had changed, and yet not changed.

Gone was the christened blue cap with a pine tree adorned its front. Come was broader shoulders, and clear signs of having shaven recently, save for a dusting of short brown hair on his chin. Same was his eyes- deep brown and pensive with sleepy dark bags underneath them.

"We good?" Dipper turned to his crew, and Amy page, who gave him a thumbs up from behind a man holding up the camera. He turned back to Wendy. "You ready?"

"Dipper," Wendy gave him a quick up and down looking over, "you grew up!"

"Uh... yes, I did," Dipper grinned, a faint blush in his cheeks, "it happens over ten years. You know."

"Right. Of course it does." Wendy nodded, taken aback at his statement. Something about his looks just threw her off her expectations. This was the man Dipper Pines, the twelve year old dork who was as smart as they came grew up to be? "You just, you know... you look great."

Dipper blinked, and glanced back to the cameraman, who shrugged."...Okay, uh, interview time?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever you want bud," Wendy nodded, giving a thumbs up to the camerawoman too, who snickered.

"Okay." Dipper sighed, and turned half way to the Camera, and adopted a captivating look. "Dipper Pines here, with a rare interview with the world renown Wendy Corduroy, who is about to make the longest bike jump in history."

"How was college?" Wendy suddenly asked, forgetting she was on camera. "You went through college, right?"

"Wendy," Dipper grunted, nodding to the camera.

"Oh, sorry dude."

"With someone as talented," Dipper turned to look at Wendy, listing things off that just passed her by, as she studied her long-lost friend turned... good looking guy, "and driven as Corduroy, there are many questions someone could ask. Wendy, what compels someone to do the things you do: to break records without fear of your own life?"

"Dipper, your beard hair looks awesome. How long have you had that?"

"Ahem."

"Dang-" Wendy groaned, and gave a half-attempted smile to the camera, shaking some of her red hair from her face, "uh, well, um," she bobbed her head a little as she thought, and only found herself staring into his eyes. "Yes."

Dipper looked to her and his boss, Amy, who shrugged and shook her head. Wendy was clearly not used to any kind of rehearsal, but her mind was entirely scatterbrained. Dipper snorted a little, and cleared his face of direct facial expression- professional. It made Wendy smile a little.

"Wendy, people understand the physical strain and sacrifice someone in your profession has to go through to stay at the top. Broken bones, shattered ribs, trips to the hospital; but they don't know what other sacrifices we have to make. What kind of sacrifices have you had to make in your life to get this far?"

Wendy hadn't heard a word from him at all. She wanted to listen, really, she did; but all she could do was watch his lips move. What on earth happened to his kid? She was three years his senior, and here she was stumbling in her thoughts to process how much this boy had grown into a man. It just wouldn't compute! He looked really, really, great!

"Oh," she finally got the words all put together in her mind, having understood the question, and Dipper smiled back, "ah, you know... uh... yeah."

"...yeah?" Dipper asked, his smile fading. "Uh-" he glanced to the camera where Amy had slapped her head into her hand. Tambry motioned to Dipper, tapping her watch with the her hand, demanding they warp it up.

"Yeah." Wendy nodded and restated. "What was the question? Sorry dude."

"Uh... This is Dipper Pines, with Wendy Corduroy, coming to you from Texas," Dipper gave his best smile to the camera and the tiny red light went dark. The Cameraman dropped his grip and leveled his shoulders with a sigh.

"Well that was something," Amy told Dipper as she started writing notes onto her paper.

"Was that bad?" Wendy asked Dipper, "dude, sorry, I'm kind of frizzled out here."

"Don't have to tell me that," Dipper nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Man, you never struck me as the kind who gets nervous in front of a camera."

"I'm not," Wendy earnestly told him, "just a little, uh, unraveled."

"Unraveled?"

"Dipper, you grew up to look great!" Wendy said breathily. Maybe that had been a little too far, as Dipper's eyes grew wide and his face sunk into a shade of red. Wendy shook her head- way too forward. "Sorry man. You know; nerves, big day, seeing you after... ten years?"

"Ten years," Dipper told her with a sigh. "It's great you know," he told her as he wove a hand through his hair with a sigh, "how well you're doing."

"Oh, thanks man. Gotta make due, you know?"

"Yeah. I know," Dipper added, a hint of deeper intent hidden inside his words. Wendy detected it, and adjusted her stance as she stared at her friend. He carried some of that pain from so long ago still.

The lights next to them, flooding in from the stadium caught her eye. The chanting fans called her name. Corduroy. Corduroy. She had heard those chants and seen lights like those before, but it hadn't been until she looked into his eyes when suddenly everything seemed soo... vibrant. Alive. Truly alive, not this test of existence she put herself through constantly. She felt like a hero.

"Dipper, we should hang out. What are you doing tonight?"

Dipper rooted himself to the spot, halfway from turning to Amy. Slowly, he looked to her, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Uh... what do you mean?"

"Are you busy tonight?" Wendy re-stated, "lets, you know, catch up. Over dinner or something. Do you like steak- of course you do. You're a guy, duh."

"I... yes, I like steak," Dipper chuckled, a grin growing on his lips that seemed to want to hide itself, "but we need to be going, Wendy. Sorry."

"Huh? Wait, you're going to stay for the jump, right?"

"I really wish I could Wendy but, I've gotta get this edited and sent. I really do wish I could."

"Aw, c'mon buddy," Wendy stepped closer, amazed with how much taller he had gotten. She was now eye-level with him. Jesus. "For old time sake. You. Me. You can have a beer or something, and I'll have some jelly beans. Sound good?"

"Wendy, I'm really sorry. I need to go now. I'll, uh... maybe we can interview again?"

"Yeah... that sounds great," Wendy nodded, numb in her brain as Dipper and his fellow crewman and boss turned and walked away. Wendy watched him go, getting the chance to see his face one more time as he turned around, a final look back at her. Man he had changed.

Tambry watched her friend stare after that unknown soul, and she finally caught on. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say you two have some kind of history."

"That was it, Tambry," Wendy said in a hushed tone and a large grin on her face. "The sign!"

Maybe there was such a thing a second chance after all? For the first time in years, she found himself excited about the future. Maybe the Devil didn't really own her soul. Perhaps she wasn't cursed after all. Suddenly, she was eager to find out.

Assuming she survived the next thirty minutes .. .

Texas Stadium, ordinarily the home of the Dallas Cowboys, had been done up proper for Wendy Corduroy's "Touchdown Jump." Colored banners, emblazoned with bright red cartoon flames, festooned the bleachers, which were packed to capacity. Today's event had been sold out for weeks, with scalpers charging ob scene fees for even the nosebleed seats. The domed ceiling covered the bleachers, but not the field itself. A large rectangular opening let in the bright after noon sunshine. Texans liked to joke that the hole in the ceiling was there so that "God can watch His team."

Special modifications had been made for the cycle show. An insanely vertical ski ramp ran from the top of the stadium and down through the goal posts, with the landing ramp in the other end zone one hundred yards away. Jumbotron TV screens flanked the cherry-red take-off ramp. A lengthy expanse of green AstroTurf stretched between the towering yellow goal posts. The rhythmic chanting of the audience exploded into a deafening roar as Wendy appeared at the top of the ramp. The humongous TV screens treated the fans to a close-up of the celebrated dare devil atop her bike.

Wendy pumped her fists and both goal posts burst into flame.

The crowd somehow managed to cheer even louder.

Here we go again, Tambry thought. She avoided looking down the vertigo-inducing ski ramp as she handed Wendy her crash helmet. Instead she gazed out across the intimidating length of the football field below. The other ramp seemed impossibly far away. Acid ate away at the pit of his stomach. She would have killed for a Tums.

"Thank God you listened to me and took out the cars," Tambry said, raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the crowd. "That would have been suicide. Now if you come up short, you'll just land on some nice, soft AstroTurf." A shadow passed over her face and she looked up in confusion. "Huh?"

To his dumbfounded amazement, a squadron of six black Lynx helicopters descended through the rectangular gap in the ceiling. Their spinning rotors whipped up the air inside the arena as they touched down on the football field, lining up in a row between the flaming goal posts. Their blades kept on spinning.

Slack-jawed, wide-eyed and speechless, Tambry looked to Wendy for an explanation.

Wendy shrugged her shoulders and smiled sheepishly.

"I took out the cars."

The helicopters' blades whirred like giant buzzsaws. Tambry couldn't believe her eyes. "You replaced the cars with HELICOPTERS!?" he shouted, finding her voice. "So if you come up short you'll be sliced and diced in a human food processor?! Of all the crazy, suicidal stunts-"

"Take it easy," Wendy said.

Was she freaking serious? Tambry threw up her hands. "Why didn't you tell me about this!?"

"Because you would have thrown a fit," Johnny explained. Tambry tried to figure out how Wendy could have possibly arranged all this behind her back.

"Yeah, I'm funny that way! Human sacrifices make me uncomfortable!" Tambry forced herself not to blow her top. She searched her friend's face, genuinely trying to understand. "Why, Wendy?"

Wendy smiled, a sad look on her face. "My dad thought it would be cool. Manly."

Her dad who died ten years ago today. Now that she thought of it, Tambry dimly remembered the incident in Gravity Falls where Manly Dans life was taken. Tambry slowly grasped that this was Wendy's way of honoring her father's memory.

Hell. How could she argue with that?

The two women stared down at the sleek black copters. They looked infinitely snazzier than any row of burning trucks ever had. Damn, but it was hard to fault the showmanship involved.

"He was right," Tambry admitted. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she tried to adjust to a whole new game plan. "Okay, now remember to hit your NOS mid-way through the take-off ramp. Don't wait for lift off or you're gonna . . ." Wendy was staring off into space, barely listening to her. "Hey, where's your head at?"

Wendy remained lost in thought, a dreamy expression upon her face. "I should have stopped him."

Him. Tambry wondered briefly who Wendy could possibly have her head in the clouds over at such a time, then realized who she had to be talking about. That man. The one she knew from before.

"Well, I'll be damned," she said, chuckling to herself. In all the years Tambry had known her, Wendy had never fallen hard for anyone, despite all the grease groupies throwing themselves at her. There were times Tambry had wondered whether her friend had antifreeze in her veins. "Looks like you're flesh and blood after all."

* The crowd inside the stadium grew restless as the big moment approached. A pair of announcers shamelessly hyped the event over the arena's public address system. "Corduroy and Chief Mechanic Tambry DiCicco run one final check," the first announcer observed as over sized images of the two women flashed upon the gigantic TV screens at both ends of the stadium. A brand-new XR 750 replaced the one Wendy had trashed at the motorway.

"You can feel the tension all the way up here in the booth, Jim," his partner added. His hushed tone only made the occasion seem more dangerous. "These people know that the slightest error can cost Wendy Corduroy her life."

At the top of the ramp, though, Wendy wasn't at all worried about that. Her brain was elsewhere. "He's probably on the interstate by now," she commented to Tambry.

"Wendy? Hello?" Tambry waved a hand in front of Wendy's face. Her boss's newfound preoccupation with that young man could not have come at a worse time. As happy as Tambry was that Wendy had finally succumbed to Cupid's arrow, there was still the little matter of a certain death-defying stunt. "Sixty-five thousand people came to see you jump." She checked to make sure Wendy's crash helmet was on securely. "You gotta focus, girl!"

To her relief, a determined expression came over Wendy's face. She looked more focused-more motivated -than she had in years. For once, she seemed to truly care whether she lived or died.

"How much giggle gas did you put in the tanks?" she asked urgently.

"Enough to shame a space shuttle," Tambry said, glad to see Wendy taking an interest in her own survival at last. Maybe that kid was a good influence on her after all. "Why?"

Wendy just grinned and slapped down her face shield.

Gunning the engine, she whacked open the throttle and took off down the sickeningly steep ramp. Plumes of white smoke jetted from the 750's exhaust pipes.

The crowd leapt to its feet. This was what they had been waiting all day for.

"And here goes Corduroy!" the announcer exclaimed.

Tambry could barely watch. She squeezed her eyes shut as the spanking new stunt bike rocketed down the ramp and took off through the fiery uprights. Had Wendy fired off the nitrous oxide system in time? It was hard to tell, especially with your eyes closed.

"She's not going to make it," the uptight gearhead muttered, just like she always did whenever Wendy at tempted a new stunt. Acid reflux climbed up her throat. "She's not going to make it. . . ."

She peeked between her fingers as Wendy soared above the whirring blades of the half-dozen helicopters. A collective gasp nearly sucked in all the air in the stadium. The smell of burning nitrous reached Tambry's nostrils. Hitting the apogee of its airborne arc, the bike began to descend toward the distant landing ramp . . . with three more copters still to clear.

"She's not going to make it. .. ."

Tambry was convinced that she had a closed-coffin funeral in her future.

Wendy cleared the final copter by less than a yard and, just barely, touched down on the sloping red ramp beneath another set of burning goal posts.

The cycle wobbled slightly on impact, but stayed up right. Wendy kept the bike under control as she cruised down the ramp.

"Corduroy has done it!" the announcer shouted into his mike. Tens of thousands of cycle fans whooped and hollered and threw their souvenir programs into the air. Pandemonium broke out inside Texas Stadium. Fireworks on the field sprayed fountains of white sparks into the air. There hadn't been so much cheer ing and clapping beneath the open roof since the last time the Cowboys made it into the Super Bowl.

"Unbelievable!" the other announcer enthused. "Absolutely incredible!"

Relief flooded Tambry's entire body. Beaming, she un covered her eyes and hollered back at the stage crew behind her.

"I told you she'd make it!"

Straining her eyes, she watched Wendy slide to a stop at the opposite side of the stadium. The helicopter's rotors slowly stopped spinning. Wendy removed her helmet, revealing her disheveled red hair, and pumped her fist in the air. The Jumbotron screens revealed an uncharacteristic grin on the daredevil's face.

Tambry felt her insides relax. She immediately wanted to send flowers to Dipper Pines.

"Wendy Corduroy has set a new world-"

Then, to everyone's surprise, Wendy jammed her helmet back on and revved her engine again. Tambry blinked in confusion as the bike sped toward the exit ramp behind the goal posts. She didn't know what was happening.

Neither did anyone else.

"Hey!" the startled announcer blurted. "Where's she going?"

* * *

><p><em>Once again, all my thanks goes to EZB for helping me out with the return of Dipper! Go check out his stuffs. Go. DO EET!<em>


	8. Chapter 8

The news van cruised down the long Texas highway, heading for Gravity Falls, Oregon. Suburban parks and developments rushed past their windows. Street signs pointed out the way to the University. Traffic wasn't too bad yet. Dipper was glad they had left the stadium before the big rush after the event. He settled back into his seat.

"I'll say one thing," his cameraman commented, breaking the silence. "The woman's got guts. The other night I was watching-"

Dipper bristled slightly. "Can we please stop talking about Wendy Corduroy for a while? Please?"

The cameraman glanced at the rear-view mirror. "That might be a little hard. .. ."

_What's that supposed to mean?_ Peering back over his shoulder, Dipper was shocked to see Wendy Corduroy, zooming after them on her garish stunt cycle. She flashed her headlight to get his attention. Was the modified Harley even remotely street-legal? Wendy didn't seem to care. Switching lanes, she pulled along-side the van. She flipped up the visor on her crash helmet.

"I made it!" She shouted, grinning, her voice muffled by the window between them. The unmistakable roar of a V-Twin engine penetrated the van's front cabin. "I need to talk to you!"

Dipper did a double-take, caught off-guard by Wendy's unexpected appearance. He rolled down his window.

"I need to talk to you!" she repeated.

_This is insane._ Biting down his lip, he struggled to maintain his composure as his past caught up with him at sixty miles per hour. The cameraman helpfully slowed down.

"You want me to pull over?!" she asked.

Determined not to look at Wendy, he fixed his gaze on the road ahead, only to experience a sudden surge of panic as he saw a eighty-ton semitrailer barreling straight toward her. Intent on getting through to him, Wendy seemed oblivious to the oncoming vehicle.

"Wendy, lookout!"

She looked up in time to see the big rig rushing to ward her. The bike burned rubber as it surged ahead and veered sharply to the right, barely missing the semi's front fender.

"Jesus!" Dipper yelped as the motorcycle screeched to a halt directly in front of the van.

The startled cameraman slammed on the brakes, throwing both him and Dipper forward in their seats. A taut seat belt kept him from flying through the wind shield, but her was too scared for Wendy to even notice the restraint. He held his breath as the speeding news van skidded to a halt only inches away from the stationary bike and rider. Horns honked and brakes squealed behind the van as their sudden stop set off a chain reaction all along the freeway. How they man aged to avoid a multicar pileup he would never know. Beside him, Dipper's cameraman slumped forward over the steering wheel, gasping. His narrow face was white as a sheet.

The color gradually returned to Dipper's face as well. He took a second to thank every angel in heaven that Wendy had not been flattened beneath the van's wheels . .. then his temper got the better of him.

What the hell was she thinking, pulling a lunatic stunt like that? Has she lost her mind? He wouldn't be surprised to find out that every hair on his head had turned white.

He threw open the van door and clambered down onto the asphalt. A chorus of angry voices and blaring car horns assailed him, but Dipper was only interested in what one particular rider had to say. He marched toward Wendy, as she walked his bike to the side of the road. Waving apologetically back at the drivers behind her, the cameraman obligingly pulled the van onto the shoulder, too.

"Wendy, you almost got yourself killed!" he railed at Wendy. His poised, professional manner had gone bye-bye. "What were you thinking?"

Wendy sat meekly astride her bike. "I- I just wanted to talk." She took off her helmet and hung it on the handlebars in front of her. "I haven't seen you in so long and then, blam, here you are and . . ."

"This is crazy!" he interrupted her. "That stunt was crazy." He threw his hands up in the air. He didn't know whether to slap her or have her committed. "Look, it really is great to see you again, words can't describe how great it is, but I've got a piece to edit. I don't really have time for this, Wendy."

He spun around and walked back toward the van, leaving her behind for the second time this afternoon. Maybe this time it will take.

"You could have said 'no,' " she called after him. He paused and looked back at her. A skeptical eyebrow arched. "When they asked you to interview me. You could have said 'no.' "

Actually, the interview had been his idea, but he didn't feel like mentioning that now. He didn't want to do anything to encourage her.

Or did he?

Against his better judgment, he walked back over to where she was sitting. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that means something."

Dipper sighed and softened his voice, an uncertain expression upon his face. "Wendy, we're on the side of a freeway. You . .."

"Doesn't have to be here," she insisted. "How about dinner tonight? I know this great rib place."

He shook his head sadly. "It's not really such a good idea."

"I thought maybe you might want an explanation," she said, "about why I did what I did. The day I left."

Her guilt and regret were painfully obvious. Dipper guessed that she had been beating herself up over the events of that fateful day. He suddenly felt terrible about giving her such a hard time.

"Wendy," he said gently, "you were just fifteen. You witnessed a horrible tragedy and you ran. It made sense to me then, it makes sense to me now." After the initial shock of her leaving, he'd had plenty of time to think things over and reach some sort of under standing about what had happened that day. "I have no hard feelings. None. The reason they call it the past is that, well, it's past. Over and done with." The more he talked about it, the more she almost believed it. "We're completely different people now than we wer-"

Before he could finish, Wendy leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips found his and, for an endless moment, he was instantly transported back to a summer afternoon beneath a shady front porch. Dipper surrendered briefly to the kiss before he came to his senses (as much as he didn't want to) and realized that this was neither the time nor the place. He reluctantly pulled away from he and blushed. He hesitantly turned back toward the van, striding a little less decisively this time. His legs felt rubbery.

"It doesn't have to be ribs," she called out. "It could be Chinese, Italian ... you name it."

He stopped, sighed, and looked back at her. Familiar emerald green eyes entreated him. God, he could never resist those eyes. ...

Oh, man. . . This is gonna be awesome. "Alright. There's a restaurant at my hotel- the Plaza. Eight o'clock."

Her whole face lit up. "This is a sign, Dipper!" she shouted exuberantly as he climbed back into the van. His cameraman gave him a quizzical look, which he did his best to ignore, instead trying to hide his growing excitement. It's just a dinner, he rationalized, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just made a mistake. Maybe a chance to achieve a little closure after all these years. His shrink would approve. Who knows? Perhaps he'd even get a good story out of this. Dinner with the famously reclusive Wendy Corduroy.

. . . . . . Oh, who was he kidding?! He just got a kiss from the girl of his dreams! AND she asked him out! In the same day!

The taste of her kiss lingered on his lips as the van pulled back into traffic. Passing motorists, recognizing Wendy in her snazzy white suit, honked their horns in greeting. Wendy waved back at them, looking embarrassingly happy.

Dipper still wondered what exactly he was getting into.

Wendy wasn't the only one who took a big leap today.


	9. Chapter 9

_Once again, I have to give my thanks to EZB for the help he gave me with writing out Dipper and Wendy's date. If you haven't already, you have to check out his story "The Return to Gravity Falls". It is getting CRAY-CRAY!_

* * *

><p>Wendy tossed aside the dress she had lifted up from her closet. Hell no. Not that one.<p>

She lifted a skirt. Even worse.

She lifted a pair of nice jeans... okay, maybe those.

Wendy growled, throwing them against the couch in her studio. She was running around, only in her underwear as she struggled to come to terms with that she should wear. The advantages of being a daredevil was that you knew you would be wearing protective, full body leather with flames sewn into the sides.

That wouldn't work. Not this time.

If she went to this date looking like this, she would draw attention to herself. She already thought that having that talk with Dipper was enough, but then not to show up to their own date with anything nice? She might as well go for round two back in the stadium earlier today.

As she decided, she paced nervously in front of her antique mirror mounted above the bathroom sink, practicing.

"Dipper, that day, the day I left. . . well, the rea son I did that-and I felt bad, horrible about it-but the reason was ..." she hesitated, working up the nerve to say the actual words. "This is bad. This is going to be a disaster."

For a moment, she was half-tempted to call the whole thing off. If she had actually known Dipper's cell phone number, she might have called to cancel. Maybe.

"No, no. Don't go there." She steeled herself to try again. "That's too negative. Gotta be positive. Power of positive thinking." God knows she'd read enough self-help books and spiritual guides on the subject. "I'm okay, you're okay. It's all going to be okay."

She stopped pacing and looked herself squarely in the mirror. Her reflection showed her - Wendy Corduroy, stunt cyclist extraordinaire. Not a victim doomed to perpetual unhappiness because of a stupid mistake she made as a kid.

"You made that jump," she reminded herself. "No body else made that jump. You're the best rider and you deserve a second chance." She groaned aloud.

"C'mon Corduroy!" Wendy told herself, inspecting herself in the mirror. Freckles and a toned body gazed back at her. "What do you wear that's you, and nice?" she asked.

Something that was you, and looked nice? Was there such a thing?

"Shit," she groaned, and leaned back, falling back onto the couch to lay upside down. On the table before her she saw the upside down copies of many an occult study. They didn't scare her. Nothing in those books seemed to put fear into the girl now dangling her feet over the back of her sofa like the prospect of not having something nice to wear to this dinner with an old friend.

An old, young friend. An old, young friend who grew up into a hottie.

"God damn it," Wendy sighed, and pushed herself back over the edge, straining as she did. Her feet landed on the floor.

"Ow!" she yelped

The floor had been burning hot. Yet as she looked to the concrete floor below her, she saw no sign of heat, and felt no more burning. She even inspected the bottom of her feet, expecting a spider bite or needle to be wedged in her feet.

Nothing.

"Huh... nerves. It's gotta be nerves," Wendy mumbled as she stepped back to the mirror. Looking over the sink that she used as a reference, she leaned forward, breathing heavily.

What was it she told Tambry earlier today?

"You can't live in fear," she told herself, staring into her bright green eyes. She closed them and sighed again. "You can't live in fear. You can't life in... in..." her nose felt steam pass by her face.

Her eyes darted open, and shot downwards. Rising from the edge of the sink, Wendy saw a trail of steam jutting out from under her fingers. She yelled and pulled back, afraid she might burn herself. But, like before, there was no direct source of heat, and no sign of damage on her hands.

"What the hell?" she demanded.

A hallucination? Now, of all times? Was she really that stressed out about this that she was not only have hallucinations, but two of the same kind; one rapidly after another? She shook her head frantically, trying to push away the thoughts. She reached over a dresser and grabbed a small pack of cigarillos. She almost never smoked, but it was stressful times like this when she had just one. Besides, in her line of work, crash landings were more dangerous than nicotine.

Or maybe she just had a death wish.

To her surprise, the flame from her lighter bent toward her. Wendy snapped the lighter shut and stared at it in bewilderment. She lifted a finger, but didn't detect any sort of draft that might explain the flame's odd behavior. The air was perfectly still.

That was... weird.

She held her head in the hands and groaned. "Shit, is just what I needed right now," she growled. She looked up and her eyes darted to the clock. It was 7:50. "DOUBLE SHIT!" she roared, and raced over for those jeans. "I'll be late!" she shouted as she desperately began to snake those denim trousers up her legs. Wendy struggled and fell forward with a desperate yell, knocking over a pile of books in the process. "Gah! Shiiiit! Ow!"

She'd be late all right. Late even if she sped.

* * *

><p>7:55 P.M.<p>

It had been barely five minutes since he was seated, and already he was nervous. He checked the watch again. Nope, still the exact same time it had been two seconds before. He looked to the table before him. White table cloth lined the edges, informing him of the formal dining experience he had signed himself up for.

Dipper turned in his seat, looking towards the door. No sign of her yet.

"Can I help you with anything to drink?" the waitress asked as Dipper turned back, and he yelped. "Oh! Sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay. I'm okay," Dipper reiterated, "Uh... what was the question?"

"Drinks?" the blonde with a pixie cut asked. Dipper puffed out air, entirely uncertain what to get. Should he pay for some nice wine for Wendy and himself? It only seemed fair that he would get her something nice. Then again, she was probably used to the life of luxury, and whatever he could afford would be trash. She offered a suggestion, "maybe you'd like to try some of our wines?"

"Uh... sure. What's your most... best... cheapest best-est wine you have?" Dipper tried asking, having no experience with real wine tasting, save fore a few drinks here and there in college. The waitress eyed him with a humorous stare.

"Big date night?" she asked.

"Yes," he sighed and leaned forward a little, "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Wait until she, or he," she added, "shows. Then I'll ask again. I'll bring you some water," the waitress kindly said, and Dipper thank her as she left. He pulled down his sleeve, and checked his watch.

7:58 P.M.

"God," Dipper groaned.

This was almost the kind of situation he wanted advice on. But as far as he knew, the best, and worst person to tell about this was Mabel. They hadn't had a chance to talk in the past few weeks due to Dipper's growing job requirements and Mabel's ever-going job artist for hire. Fortunately for her, she had been recently discovered and had gotten many a commission, but that meant no time to chat with her twin brother.

Dipper flipped open his cell phone, and stared at it. Should he let her know? She was horrible with trying to get him dates. She had incorrectly guessed two sexual identities of ladies Dipper had been friends with in college, and had both times tried to pair Dipper with them. But she did have a tendency to know the order of things like this.

He punched up a text message. Something simple. Telling her Hi, how are you? And that he found Wendy alive and well, and now she's on a date. Dipper read his own message and cringed. It sounded desperate, entirely how he was. He didn't even try to make it sound urgent and he thought it was easily the most urgent thing he had ever heard. With a trembling finger, he hit the send button.

Maybe she wouldn't get back to him- she was busy after all.

Dipper groaned, wondering if he had just sent himself down the river, and so he cupped his face into his hands. Anxiety was winning this battle for him.

His hand checked the watch.

8:01 P.M.

A whole whopping minute past the scheduled time. Dipper sighed sadly. He was still alone.

A roar of an expensive motorcycle engine called his attention behind him. Raised, worried voices from outside also shot at him as the screeching of tire thundered from outside. Dipper tried craning his head past the doors, seeing out into the hotel lobby. Many others were doing the same without hesitation.

His heart raced when he saw her striding towards him, a bag in her hands and facing the entrance. As she pushed open the door behind her, Dipper caught some of Wendy's last conversation. "...yeah, I'll totally pay for it. It's really replaceable. Yeah, don't worry, I'm trust worthy. Just let me get my date- yeah! Don't worry!"

Dipper's mouth fell open as she turned in and spotted him. She had run into a parked car when she got here.

"Hey," she waved her hand, plopping down a bag of brightly colored jelly beans next to her napkin, "how you doing, bud?"

"Wendy... did you hit someone when you got here?" Dipper asked quietly.

"No!" Wendy waved at him, adjusting her dress shirt and removing her leather jacket from her shoulders as she sat down, draping the jacket on the back behind her. "Well, I hit his car. But it won't cost that much. Side view mirrors are an easy fix. Heck, I could just duct tape it for the guy if he had some. SO!" She scoot her chair with a few loud thumps, dusting her shoulders off, and then looking into his eyes. She laughed suddenly. "Ah... I forgot what I was going to say."

"Uh..." Dipper stared back, not breaking eye contact with her. Neither of them spoke, just looking into the other's large, wondering eyes. "I did too," Dipper admitted, and also laughed quickly, licking his chaps. That gave him an idea. "Oh! Drinks! You want something to drink?"

"Water," Wendy told him as she pointed to the glass before her, which she took and performed and mighty chug.

"Oh, well, you don't want, uh, wine? Or... vodka? Wait, no, sake?" Dipper looked at the short menu on the table showing the alcoholic drinks.

"No thanks man," Wendy clarified as she poured her jelly beans into an empty glass next to her. "Alcohol gives me nightmares."

"Oh... okay," Dipper nodded, and spotted the coming waitress, "hey. We'll pass on the wine."

"Oh, that's okay," the blond woman turned to Wendy. "Good even...ing... I've seen you on television, havn't I?" she asked, leaning up.

"Mmm?" Wendy asked as she took a sip from her wine glass filled with apple-tini jelly beans.

"Yeah! You're one of those famous bike riders!" she nodded, "wow! It's great to see you outside the bike helmet and into... normal clothes," the woman added, eyeing Wendy, "can I start you two with something?"

"What's the closest thing to a dumpling you have?" Wendy asked quickly, chewing on a few remaining candies.

"Our potstickers are pretty good," the waitress suggested.

"Them. I'll have those!" Wendy declared, looking to Dipper with excitement and leaning closer to him, "pot-stickers dude."

"And you, sir?" the waitress asked Dipper. He was so stunned that all he could manage was to nod.

"Yes. Those," he added, his eyes stuck on Wendy.

"Alright. Two potstickers coming up, and then we can get your some entrees," she nodded and turned from them, bouncing away happily.

"Nice. Potstickers. They're not actually filled with pot, are they?" Wendy asked Dipper, leaning closer in worry.

"What? No! They're basically Japanese dumplings," Dipper told her.

"Ohhhh, cool," she nodded, picking up another candy and popping into her mouth. Dipper was watching her, and she caught on. "Uh, you want one?"

"They're apple flavored?" Dipper double checked.

"Apple-tini dude," she told him with a satisfied grin while chewing one down to its surgery constructs. "C'mon, you once trusted me to give you stuff."

"I... yeah, It was a long time ago," Dipper added, a red tint growing in his cheeks as he remembered what their last encounter was like, "and a lot has changed-"

She silenced with him as she laid a jelly bean on the table, and with a firm push, threw it towards him. His hands scrambled to nab it, and he did so. Without much to regret, he popped it into his mouth and smiled. It was as tart as he had hoped it to be, and grinned despite himself.

"That was good," he told her.

"It better be. It's my drinking alternative," she informed him as she leaned back.

They smiled at one another over the table. So much had changed, and yet nothing had changed at all. To Dipper, Wendy Corduroy was exactly the same person he had remembered her to be, plus or minus a bit of money and status behind her. Being a professional daredevil was enough for her to hit cars and wave it off like it was nothing. Yet here she was, at a fancy dinner place, throwing Dipper candy's. She was exactly the same.

The mirror did not go both ways, however. Wendy stared at Dipper Pines, and absentmindedly chewed on the piece of candy. He had changed. Changed a whole heck of a lot. She reveled in how his shoulders had grow wider since their last meeting, and clearly he had put some muscle on his body. Not enough for her to really wonder if he had been pumping metal or anything ridiculous like that, but she could really see the man he was now, not the boy he used to be.

"So," Wendy started, feeling a heat rising in her face as she realized she had been staring at him a tad bit too long.

"So," he mimed her back.

"I'm so bad at this," Wendy admitted, ashamed at her performance as a date partner.

"Me too."

"We should be talking about how we've been and stuff, and I'm just throwing jelly beans at you," she scolded herself, rubbing her forehead. "God, I'm dumb."

"You're not dumb," Dipper assured her, "reckless, yeah. Dumb? Nah. And besides," he added quietly, "I like the jelly beans."

Wendy blushed, straight up went red in the face, and she tossed him another one, which accidentally smacked him in the eye.

"Ow!"

"Oh! Dang it! Sorry dude!" Wendy apologized as she reached across the table, trying to will her energy to help with his hurt eye.

"It's okay, I'm good," Dipper rubbed his eye, looking at Wendy with a crooked smile, "when did you get so... uh... like this at dinner dates?" he asked her as he stretched his face with a silent yawn.

"When did you get so handsome?" she replied. The tables turned, Dipper went a shade of pink.

"College didn't exactly tell me that," Dipper told her with a nearly closed mouth. His jaw seemed to have tightened to her words.

"Ha! Yeah right. I bet the girls were fawning over you left and right!" Wendy pointed a finger at him. He laughed and shook his head. "What? What kind of dumb women did you go to school with!?"

"The kinds that were more into studying and their career than dating a guy like me," Dipper shrugged.

"Man. Posers," Wendy snorted and leant back, "well, we can make up for lost time. Date with me, right dude?" she proposed, a thumbs up in the air.

"And already it's a resounding success once you get past the fact that neither of us clearly know how to actually go on a date," Dipper mentioned, poking at his water glass.

"Nothing?" Wendy demanded, mocking outrage," Dipper!"

"Okay, like a tiny idea," Dipper corrected his statement. "But just barely something."

"Something is better than nothing, dude," Wendy grinned at him. He laughed with her, feeling a true moment of ease and comfort. It gave Wendy a chance to speak her mind. "You remember, all those years ago, when we would run through those woods? Like that one time we found the society of the blind eye?"

"Ha, found, more like totally ruined," Dipper nodded as he chuckled darkly, "I remember when we went down into that bunker."

"Oh, dude," Wendy leaned forward, remembering instantly, "that was freaky!"

"Yeah it was," Dipper sighed slightly, "I thought you died."

"Well, death is one thing dude. Try having a copy of you get up and fight you for a journal," she told him as she juggled a few beans into the air, popping them into her mouth one after another. Dipper smiled and nodded.

"I know what you mean," Dipper admitted.

"Uh... you do?" she asked after a moment, "I mean... what did I miss when I left?"

"No, it was before... you see, I may or may not have made an army of clones at one point, and we eventually had a disagreement to our plans," the well dressed man explained, adjusting some of his curly hair from his face off his forehead.

"Wait, what?" Wendy spluttered.

"Yeah, it was during Grunkle Stan's disco party," Dipper elaborated, "I found a strange copy machine, and it made copies of me. I, well, we wanted to find a way to get a dance with you," Dipper rolled his eyes at the end of his explanation, "and we still couldn't do it. Pretty dumb, huh?"

Wendy couldn't help but laugh. It was adorable. She had no idea about that. Knowing the weird things that had happened in her once home town, she didn't put it past Dipper finding a way to clone himself, and the younger boy she remembered always had a bad time when it came to over thinking himself.

Wendy made to speak again, but saw a sadder looking man sitting across her from, his hands at his sides as he stared into the water glass before him.

"Dipper?" she asked, and he jolted to life again.

"Hey! What?" he sniffled and looked to her.

"You looked deep in thought," Wendy pointed out.

"Uh... yeah," he nodded, "you could say that."

"It's about that last thing that happened, wasn't it?" Wendy asked him with a sad grin. Dipper merely nodded, and she sighed. "Dude, it's the past. Yeah, it happened, and you know what, it was bad. I was hurt, but Dipper, we can't just keep looking back, you know?" she asked, feeling a bead of sweat falling down her neck. It felt hot in here.

"I know," Dipper nodded, leaning forward, "but it was my fault. How do I just walk away from that?" he asked of her. Wendy opened her mouth, but the look on Dipper's face cut her short. He was staring at her.

"What?"

"You look really, uh, warm. Hot?" Dipper asked her.

Wendy put a hand to her face. She could of sworn she felt a sizzle of evaporating sweat off her face. Rather than reply, she took the rest of her water and drowned it. It didn't come close to helping. So she motioned for Dipper's water, which her quickly gave to her. Another chug.

Nothing was helping. She was burning up.

"Must be... uh... clothing. Maybe I'm having a- reaction, yeah," Wendy nodded as she suddenly jolted up from her seat, "I should go check. Bathrooms are?" Dipper pointed behind himself, and she rushed away, panting.

"You need any... help," Dipper ended up grumbling, and as she ran away he added, "that was stupid. She's going to the bathroom, you idiot."

Wendy slammed open the door in the ladies room. The stalls were all empty, thank god. Looking to the mirror, she looked like she had seen one too many hours in the sun. Her hands were slowly growing that color of pink too. Agitated and fearful, Wendy bent forward and started sloshing water over her face, unafraid to get her dress shirt and jeans soaked. She needed to feel cool.

The water striking her skin wasn't doing its job. Her burning temperature only seemed to rise with the water hitting her arms and face. Even her eyes seemed to burn and ache with a heat that shouldn't be natural. Steam was actually rising off of her as she stared into the mirror.

"Holy shit," Wendy muttered, looking to her hands, releasing the same kind of steam. "What the hell are in those apple-tinis!?"

Wendy spun away from the mirror and headed out through the door. She couldn't just go back to her seat, or at least back to the normal date. There was already something very strange going on. Dipper had spotted her, so she made a mad dash for her leather jacket.

"Gotta go," she said hurriedly and as apologetic as she could, "we can do this again! Was fun!" she shouted as she spun around in mid air, whipping the jacket onto her arms as best she could, running into an arriving crowd of guests. "Sorry!" she added as she ran out the doors.

Dipper had started to stand, but was watching her go. Sadness overtook him and he plopped back down. Resting his hand under his chin, he blew out his lips. "Of course my first date with her goes this badly. I just... ugh."

"Here you go," the waitress came back, dropping off two plates of warm and wonderful smelling potstickers. She looked to the empty seat and lack of a jacket, "um... did she go outside for a smoke, or something?"

Her inquiry only drove Dipper more into sadness. He groaned, and cupped his hands over his face. With one hand still over his head, he reached over and slowly dragged the other plate towards him.

"I'll have a beer," Dipper told her as he slammed an entire potsticker into his mouth, "actually, two beers. Just bring me the bar, okay?"

* * *

><p>Wendy's face flushed and she felt hot, feverish. Turning on the tap the instant she got the bathroom in her home, she splashed cold water over her face, but the water did nothing to relieve the sudden increase in her temperature.<p>

Wendy went to dry her hands on a towel, only to see the water instantly evaporate off her flesh, turning to steam right before her eyes. Heat radiated from her hand, causing the air around them to ripple like it did above hot asphalt on a particularly scorching day. _What the hell is happening to me?_

A motorcycle engine revved outside the building. Wendy stiffened in shock. Even though she hadn't heard it in years, she'd recognize that distinctive rumble anywhere. She spun around and looked out the bath room door at the cycle-crowded living quarters. Her eyes zeroed in on one particular corner of the loft, al ready guessing what she would find there. Stacks of esoteric paperbacks and hardcovers had tumbled over onto a conspicuously empty stretch of floor space.

Her mother's bike was missing was missing.

Zipping up her jacket, Wendy hurried down the steps leading to the back exit. The familiar reverberation grew louder by the moment, drawing her out into the dimly lit alley behind the converted warehouse. Steel drums and wooden pallets were piled up against the outer wall. A dumpster was filled to overflowing with worn-out tires. Potholes defaced the pavement. She burst from the doorway, then froze in disbelief.

Her mother's motorcycle sat alone in the alley, looking as good as new for the first time in over a decade. The chopper's brilliant black skin, and polished chrome, gleamed beneath the light from a street lamp outside the alley. The wheels were fully inflated once more. Every nick and scratch, every last bit of rust and corrosion, was gone. The Big Twin engines purred like a lion.

Even stranger, the bike was running by itself.

_This is impossible,_ Wendy thought. Her body still felt like it was burning up, and she wondered briefly whether the inexplicable fever was causing her to hallucinate. She reached out experimentally and found the bike solid to the touch. This is no mirage, she realized. This is really happening.

The bike's bright silver tank reflected her puzzled expression. Wendy gazed at her mirror-image, then jumped back in surprise when a second face appeared right behind her. A face she knew all too well.

Wendy spun around to face her past with a finger raised in accusation. "You .. ."

"Hello, Wendy," the stranger said.

Ten years had passed, but the man had not changed a bit. Wendy recognized the same long black coat, swept-back blond hair, gold rings, and silver cane. She had just been a teenager when she last met the stranger at that lonely crossroads outside Gravity Falls, but the other man did not appear to have aged a day. The crystal skull grinned at Wendy from atop the stranger's cane, looking pleased to see her.

"Get away from me," Wendy warned.

"Oh, it's a little late for that," the stranger replied.

Wendy had been dreading this moment for almost her entire adult life. Now that it was here, she could only back away from the stranger, putting the black bike between them.

The two people circled the growling motorcycle in a kind of macabre dance. The stranger took his time, limping leisurely around the bike on his cane. He seemed to be enjoying the slow-motion chase.

"Nice bike," he commented.

Wendy was in no mood to talk shop. "Why are you here?" she asked fearfully.

"I've always been here, Wendy," the stranger answered. "All along. Phoenix. Denver. Houston. Seattle . . ."

A horrible thought occurred to Wendy. "Today. It was you. Keeping me alive." Maybe the success of her touchdown jump had nothing to do with her own talent as a rider. Maybe her entire career was a lie. "You're the reason I can-"

"Oh, no, Wendy." The stranger shook his head. "It's all you. You're the best. And me? Well, I'm your biggest fan. The posters. The video games. The crowds chant ing 'Corduroy! Corduroy! Corduroy!'" He beamed at the younger woman. "Makes me so proud. It's like watching an investment that keeps growing and growing . . . until the day you cash it in."

He regarded Wendy like a cat eying a tasty mouse. "That day is today, Wendy."

The bikes engines growled steadily louder. Heat waves radiated off its chassis and suspension.

"I want you to find the one known as Blackheart," the stranger said. "Bring him to me."

_Blackheart? Who the hell is Blackheart?_

"Do it yourself," she said defiantly.

"It doesn't work that way," the stranger answered. "You have the physical powers that I lack." Leaning upon his cane, he cast a rueful look at the heavens. "I am bound by the rules of the deal."

Wendy remembered the brown parchment scroll she had bled on so many years ago. "Another deal?" she said, the bitterness dripping from her voice.

The stranger smiled. "Always."

_Well, I'm not playing by your rules anymore,_ Wendy thought. She swung her leg over the bike, preparing to ride off. "I won't do it."

Before she could even twist the throttle, the bike's rear tire started spinning furiously. A cloud of blue smoke, better suited to a rocket launch than a motorcycle, vented from the Harley's exhaust pipes. Wendy instinctively grabbed onto the handlebars.

"You don't have a choice," the stranger said. He tapped his skull-headed cane against the pavement. In visible bonds glued Wendy's hands to the handlebars. She tried to pull away, but it was like she was welded to the metal. Twisting the choke did nothing to quiet the Harley's revving engine.

**VRRROOOOOMMM!**

The bike rocketed out of the alley, taking Wendy with her. The jet-like thrust shoved her back in the saddle. She held onto the handlebars for dear life as the possessed chopper zoomed down the street.

... so fast that the asphalt was churned up in melted chunks.

... so fast that a fiery trail streaked the pavement behind her.

... so fast that her cheeks rippled from the g-forces she was pulling.

A helpless passenger on a breakneck ride across town, Wendy felt a scream tear itself from hisher lungs. The involuntary shriek was lost in the bike's deafening growl and the howl of the wind whipping past her ex posed face. No crash helmet or visor protected her fragile human features. Bare hands gripped the handlebars so hard that her knuckles turned white.

For the first time ever, Wendy Corduroy found her riding so fast it scared her.


	10. Chapter 10

The speedometer clocked the bikes velocity at over two hundred miles per hour.

Skyscrapers warped past Wendy in a screaming blur of steel and glass. She squeezed hard on the brakes, but the out-of-control cycle didn't even slow down.

They blasted past a row of parked cars, whose side windows exploded in the Harley's wake, setting off a cacophony of shrieking car alarms all along several city blocks. A stream of fire trailed behind the bike like the tail of a comet. Heated blacktop bubbled and boiled.

A pothole sent a bone-shaking jolt through the berserk chopper. A license plate tore loose from the rear fender and went clattering down the middle of the lane before finally coming to rest in a gutter at the side of the road. Wendy didn't even notice it was gone.

Potted shrubs, planted along the sidewalks, burst into flame as the bike snicked into high gear. Parking meters drooped from the heat. Shattered shop windows sprayed glass onto the street. Parked vehicles, merci fully devoid of passengers, exploded into fireballs as their gas tanks ignited. Mangled metal rained down on the business district. Billowing clouds of black smoke rose from the wrecked vehicles.

The city streets looked like a war zone.

The bike and its unwilling passenger left downtown Fort Worth behind in a matter of minutes. Heading north, they burned rubber along Main Street, weaving recklessly through the evening traffic. Exerting all her strength, Wendy downshifted enough to keep her meteoric passage from setting the other cars ablaze. Startled drivers honked their horns and swore at the daredevil rider seemingly risking life and limb as the speeding Harley zipped in front and around the other vehicles, never slowing for a second. Even other motorcyclists gaped in amazement at the bikes wild ride. "Where's the fire, you fuckin' maniac?!" an angry biker shouted at the two-wheeled missile that had just left him in the dust.

A panicked Wendy wished she knew.

Ahead, a few miles up the road, a motorcycle cop hid behind a large wooden billboard. His left hand gripped a handlebar, while his right held up a raised speed gun. It had been a slow night so far; he had only ticketed two drivers for speeding and busted an embarrassed college kid for driving under the influence. He was hoping for a little more action before his shift was up.

A distant rumbling caught his attention. That sounds promising, he thought. He took aim with his speed gun and leaned forward on his bike. He gunned his engine just in case the perpetrator tried to make a run for it. His left heel raised the kickstand.

Whooooosh!

A black Harley-Davidson rocketed past the road sign faster than the cop would have thought mechanically possible. "Holy crap!" he exclaimed. He glanced hurriedly at the read-out on the radar, which tracked the chopper's speed at 296 mph and climbing. The display burned out completely as the speed gun heated up in his grasp, then caught on fire. The cop yelped in pain and dropped the flaming device onto the ground. Only his thick leather gloves saved him from an instant third-degree burn. A blast of fiery exhaust knocked him onto the ground, as the entire billboard erupted into a raging inferno.

The shocked police officer scrambled away from the burning sign. He stared north in confusion, but the anonymous bike was already long gone. Only a long strip of burning asphalt, the blazing billboard, and the fried radar gun at his feet confirmed that the mystery cycle had ever existed in the first place.

The cop wondered how the hell he was ever going to explain this back at the station, even as, on the other side of the billboard, a helpful notice to 'drive friendly-the texas way!' went up in flames.

* * *

><p>"You know, I've been thinking about something the material world needs more of. You know what I think that is? Bodies. We need way more bodies just everywhere! There aren't enough bodies."<p>

"Cipher."

"Bodies, bodies, bodies. Everybody."

"Quiet."

The old train station was located north of downtown, near the historic stockyards and meat packing plants that had given Fort Worth its nickname of "Cowtown." The flavor of the Old West hung over the antique depot that had once serviced the Santa Fe line. An open courtyard, wide enough to accommodate delivery wagons and trucks, stretched between the two-story brick depot and the elevated wooden platform in front of the tracks. A diesel locomotive slumbered on the rails. The uneven floor of the courtyard was littered with dead leaves and muddy puddles. Train schedules and safety notices were posted on the exterior of the depot, along with a few old-time WANTED posters, just for color. Rusty chains dangled from the roof of an arched tunnel that ran through the center of the depot, connecting the courtyard with the parking lot beyond. A warm breeze rustled the fallen leaves. The air was hot and humid. A faraway train whistled several miles down the track.

Blackheart paid little attention to the station's decor. Accompanied by the three elementals, and that annoying demonic entity, he searched the deserted courtyard for clues to the location of his long-sought prize. No obvious marker presented itself.

But appearances could be deceiving. . . .

"Hey!" a braying voice interrupted his efforts. A portly mortal wearing a stationmaster's uniform came waddling toward them from the depot. "You can't come in here! This is private property!"

The man held up a kerosene lantern instead of a flashlight. A traditionalist, Blackheart concluded. _Just like Father._

He disliked this human already.

"Oh! Private Property!" Bill Cipher whipped around in the air, turning and staring at the human, who seemed unaware of his presence, "that's easily my favorite kind of property to trespass on! Well, that and inside the minds of extreme liberals and conservatives."

The light from the lantern fell upon the sinister vis ages of the Hidden. The stationmaster blanched, his eyes bulging in fright behind a pair of bifocals. He backed away uneasily. The lantern dipped at the end of an unsteady arm.

It suddenly occurred to Blackheart that this timid mortal might possess some useful information. "There was a cemetery here," he prompted.

"Y-yeah," the human quavered. He acted like he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. "A long time ago."

"Uh," Cipher rolled his eye, cocking his hands to his sides, "that could mean nothing to humans. They only live for like, twenty years or something. Crazy," he turned to the growling elementals, "amirite?"

With a forced smile as he ignored the two dimensional entity, Blackheart nodded towards the human. It seemed that his information, which he had taken pains to extract from the dog-eared pages of history, was correct. "What happened to the graves?"

"They were moved," the stationmaster said.

"Where?" Blackheart asked, his dark eyes narrowing.

"I dunno."

"Cipher." Blackheart called upon the triangle aloud. With a look into the human, still unaware that there was a floating, yellow triangle above him, the black outlined yellow triangle sunk into his head. The man convulsed and screamed, his eyes glowing blue as his body twitched violently.

A moment later Cipher emerged, wiping his arms off. "Eugh. A lot of happy memories and kittens. He likes kittens. Made me want to puke one-dimensionally."

"Does he know?"

"Nadda, mi amigo."

Blackheart frowned. That was not what he wanted to hear. He began to fear that he was wasting his time here. "Who would know?" The man blinked. "Who would know where the graves were moved?"

The man looked at one of his hands, uncertain they were still attached to his body, and only when Blackheart approached another step closer did he flinch. "St. Michael's Church! They were the ones in charge." The man's eyes shifted nervously from one demon to another, uncertain whom he should be most afraid of. He attempted to muster what little authority he had left. "You know, you really shouldn't be here."

"Awwww, he remembered!" Cipher cooed, cupping his arms as he rocked back and forth mid-air.

Blackheart chuckled as he stalked toward the station-master. "That's what they keep telling me."

He wondered what the chubby mortal would look like in blue.

* * *

><p>Wendy's bike sped toward what looked like a closed train station. Wendy couldn't take any credit for riding here, nor for choosing their destination. The possessed chop per had driven like it had a mind of its own.<p>

Then it proved her worries correct.

The bike screeched to a halt, throwing her from the saddle. She hit the pavement hard, sliding and stumbling across the worn surface. Yet it did little to pain her. There was already too much pain within her body to notice the bruises and twisted ankle that may have come of the crash.

Instead, she stumbled to her feet, grateful to be standing on her own two legs again. Wendy would have kissed the ground if she hadn't been distracted by the raging furnace burning inside her. Nothing seemed capable of being lower than the temperature of the planet Venus.

The wind generated by her headlong ride across town had only slightly eased the feverish inferno that seemed to be consuming her. Now that Wendy was stationary once more, the volcanic heat quickly became unbearable. Rivulets of perspiration cascaded down her face. That did little to aid her, as they quickly evaporated into steam. Her face turned crimson and her blood felt like molten lava, coursing through her entire body. She stumbled across the empty parking lot, not knowing where she was or why she was there. As far as she knew, she was still in Texas, but it felt like she was already roasting in the fiery depths of hell. She threw back her head, shrieking in agony.

_** "WHAT'S HAPPENING TO MEEEEEEE?!"**_

Nothing in her life had felt so all-consuming. Nothing physical came close, not even by a million miles. Her memories seemed to burn away, leaving her with a husk of herself, twisting her hands over her face with equally burning hands over her steaming face. Only then did she lower her hands. She was crying. But no longer tears.

She was crying fire itself.

Tears of fire leaked from her eyes. The asphalt melted beneath her tread, her feet so hot that she left a trail of smoldering boot prints sunk into the pavement. Wendy clutched her head as she shrieked and sobbed to the heavens as crackling coils of yellow flame snaked out of her blazing eye sockets. Smoke rose from her hair and eyebrows. Somewhere past the ungodly pain, her mind registered the smell of her own burning flesh.

Death would be a welcome relief.

_Make it stop!_ she prayed. _For the love of God, please__** MAKE IT SSTTTTTOOOOPPPPP!**_

The fate coming to her ignored her pleas. Nothing in the universe had prepared her for this pain. Somewhere, deep in her blocked off memory, she had been told by a doctor that the human brain can only tolerate so much stress from pain, else the body just shuts down. That threshold, should it really exist, was not playing fair to Wendy. She deserved to die. No human being of proper composure and good nature like her should have to literally live through hell.

It was too much. She must have done something to deserve this. _What? What?__** WHAT?!**_ The question bore through her mind. Then it clicked. This was just how the universe worked. This was the injustice that the real face of existence had brought to her- pain.

She started laughing. It was a joke. It all was a joke; her life, her pathetic poor excuse for a life, throwing herself against walls and into the air on bikes. It was nothing compared to this pain. She was roaring with laughter like a flaming maniac, fire jutting out from her face and lips like she were a newborn dragon. Her face ignited like burning parchment, the skin scorched from her skull as though from an explosion within. She screamed once more, and clutched away at her skin with her now lit fingers.

What little skin was left from the fire burned away instantly with a single, powerful blast of heat.

She did not collapse to the ground, a scorched, blackened skeleton.

No trace of Wendy Corduroys' famous countenance remained; instead a bleached white skull, enveloped in a halo of dancing yellow flames, sat atop the leather-clad shoulders. Hellfire smoldered in the shadowy depths of her eye sockets.

The blazing figure should have been dead, yet it felt stronger than ever before. The indescribable pain was just a fading memory.

The Ghost Rider had been reborn.

She raised a skeletal hand before her and clenched it into a fist.

Power, and a newfound sense of purpose, surged through the marrow of her bones.

The waiting was over. She knew why she walked the Earth.

She had a duty to perform.

* * *

><p>"Well, he didn't shake around nearly as much as the others. Are you sure I can't jump inside and have some fun?" Bill Cipher asked as he watched the stationmaster die.<p>

Blackheart drained the last paltry dregs of fear from the stationmaster's wizened blue corpse. Releasing his hold on the mummy's throat, he let the empty carcass drop onto the leaf-strewn courtyard. The man's kerosene lantern lay on the ground a few feet away, its sputtering flame slowly dying out.

_I believe our business here is concluded._ It was obvious that their prize was not to be found in this dismal set ting, but at least the unfortunate mortal had pointed them in the right direction before outliving his useful ness. Blackheart intended to proceed to their next destination with no further delay. He turned to inform Abigor and the others-

Wait! Blackheart suddenly sensed another presence among them, one that he had been anticipating ever since confronting his father outside the biker bar.

Mephistopheles was finally making his move, albeit by proxy.

Blackheart glanced toward the archway leading to the courtyard. His ears detected a determined tread approaching. He glimpsed a flicker of hellfire at the far end of the tunnel.

"What is it?" Abigor asked.

Blackheart grinned in anticipation. "The Rider."

Ghost Rider walked fearlessly through the archway into the courtyard in front of the railroad tracks.

"You guys smell bar-b-q?" Bill Cipher asked, and then spun to see the Ghost Rider. "WHOA! Wowy! A real human skeleton! On it's feet!? What, did someone light a science class on fire?"

As the demons laughed at the approached visage of flame, sarcastic applause greeted The Riders arrival.

She spied Blackheart standing several paces ahead, seemingly quite alone. The husk of a murdered mortal lay upon the ground at the youth's feet. Papery blue skin indicated death by necroplasm.

"Looking for someone?" Blackheart asked, no longer clapping.

Ghost Rider knew her prey on sight. She pointed a bony finger at the devil's rebellious son. "Violator," she accused in an eerie, sepulchral voice that brooked no dissent. Blackheart had trespassed against the im mutable laws of Hell. There would be a reckoning.

"You shouldn't be fighting me, Rider." Blackheart appealed to the bounty hunter's personal agenda. "We both want the same thing." He smiled slyly. "To be rid of Mephistopheles."

Wendy Corduroy might have agreed, but the Ghost Rider could never be bargained with. She stepped decisively towards Blackheart. "Back to Hell."

"Hm. What'cha say to that one, ey boss?" Bill Cipher spun around to Blackheart, who smirked at ease.

"I don't think so," Blackheart replied.

The wind whistled in Ghost Rider's nonexistent ear. A cyclonic gust of filthy air blasted against her, driving the bounty hunter back under the archway. The airborne grit would have scoured the flesh from her face, had any trace of skin still been present. Abigor's demonic face cackled within the swirling grit as the Spirit of Vengeance was blown back into the murky tunnel. A hanging chain wrapped around the naked vertebrae be neath her chin. The rusty iron noose threatened to break her neck.

Undaunted, Ghost Rider stayed upon her feet. She reached up and tugged the constricting chain away from her throat. With a savage motion, she yanked the chain free from the ceiling and turned her attention back to Blackheart.

Chain in hand, she marched toward the errant demonspawn. Her heavy black boot splashed down into a greasy puddle-and stuck there. Her glowing sockets looked down at the turbid waters and saw two liquid hands holding onto her foot. Wallow's vulpine features rippled across the surface of the puddle. Ghost Rider tried to pull her leg free, but the elemental's soggy grip held her fast.

She raised the chain, intending to lash out at her watery captor, only to be distracted by the sudden roar of a powerful engine. The burning skull pivoted on its neck-bone in time to see a massive tractor-trailer barreling across the courtyard toward the trapped specter. Black smoke billowed from the eighteen-wheeler's exhaust stack. The grille of the truck slammed into Ghost Rider, propelling her across the train tracks into the parked locomotive. The sound of metal smashing violently rang out across the station. The front of the semi folded inward like an accordion. Hot steam billowed from the crumpled hood.

The cabin door swung open and Gressil stepped out onto the tracks. The earth elemental was unharmed by the crash. Thick black smoke obscured the site of the collision, where the Rider had presumably been flattened between the truck and the train. A leering grin exposed a mouthful of dirty brown teeth.

"So that's how you park a truck," Bill Cipher applauded.

"She weren't so tough," the demon said. Turning his back on the train, he started to walk back toward the station.

BANG.

The elemental paused, his eyes widened. Behind him, pushing out from the twisted wreckage of steel and iron stepped the Ghost Rider. It's eyeless sockets stared into the earthy monster as it approached, remaining metal fall like droplets of water from its shoulders.

Gressil growled and turned towards the truck. With a powerful punch, he ripped out the entire wheel of the remaining carriage for the eighteen wheeler. Holding it in the center like a boxing glove, the earth elemental roared and slammed the wheel into the burning face of the Ghost Rider.

Should Wendy Corduroy still been alive, her neck would have been snapped back, if her head had still been attached at all after that punch. The wheel was hefty, and the force of the punch should have easily thrown the former redhead off her feet. Instead, her head just snapped back. Unimpressed, the Ghost Rider leered and lowered its face forward again.

Gressil roared again and took another swipe. The burning soul reached out and caught the assaulter by the hand. She would not let go. Not from this evil being. Her hand began to melt away at the rubber and steel. Steam and loud hisses came from the dying compound structure, and finally Gressil let go with a shout of fear.

For demonstration, the Ghost Rider held onto the wheel still. The tire exploded finally, and the metal fell from the skeleton hands like liquid, burning away the loose dirt and leaves it sloshed onto.

By the time the wheel had been entirely removed, Gressil had found a new toy- a four hundred pound section of train tracks. The earth elemental may have been the size of the human, but it certainly made up for his composure with his strength. The end of the train track slammed into the skull of the Ghost Rider, lifting her up and against the brick wall with a loud slam. Before the skeleton could fall entirely back down, the earth elemental then took both hands and gripped the six-foot section and like a spear, rammed it into the womans chest.

The Ghost Rider growled as she felt the bone-crushing powers slowly crack the brick behind her. Then the metal also began to melt away, glowing into orange goo and falling past her. Gressil quickly realize his mistake and pulled away his hands, and turned to retreat.

He had only taken a few steps, however, before a skeletal hand clamped down on his shoulder. Gressil spun around in shock to see Ghost Rider standing right behind him in all her preternatural fearsomeness. The vengeful entity drew back her fist and threw a haymaker punch that knocked off a chunk of the elemental's face and sent Gressil flying through the air to crash to the ground over twenty feet away. The demon landed face-first amidst the scattered leaves and litter. He scrambled to his feet, still reeling from the unexpected and awesome impact of the Rider's blow.

"Please!" he begged. Shattered teeth fell like gravel onto the floor of the courtyard. His yellow eyes were filled with fear as part of his lip still burnt with a small fire, "Have mercy!"

Ghost Rider raised her chain. Hellfire ignited along the length of it, causing the heavy metal links to take on a red-hot glow.

"No mercy for me," she proclaimed. "No mercy for YOU!"

She cracked the blazing chain like a bullwhip. The burning links snapped out and lassoed the squirming demon. Gressil howled in agony as he burst into flame. Eldritch fire heated the elemental's body, hardening it into solid obsidian. Ghost Rider yanked back the chain and Gressil shattered into a thousand pieces. The brittle stone cracked loudly, sounding like an explosion in a china shop. Only a cascade of broken shards and a whiff of burnt charcoal testified that Gressil had ever walked the earth at all.

_No more Hiding for him,_ Ghost Rider thought.

She snapped the chain back to her. It wrapped itself across her torso like a bandoleer as its incendiary radiance dimmed. Looking away from the elemental's cremated remains, Ghost Rider scanned the grounds of the station for her other quarries. But Blackheart and the two surviving elementals were gone. along with their two dimensional counterpart.

No matter, she resolved. She would pursue the fugitive demons across the face of the earth if needs be.

And not on foot.

Ghost Rider whistled, beckoning to her ride. The roar of a motorcycle responded to her summons as, riderless, black bike came racing through the archway to her side.

The venerable Harley-Davidson was an impressive machine, but not fully sufficient to her purposes. Yet that could be easily remedied.

She lay her bony hands upon the chopper's rear exhaust pipes. Hellfire spread from her fingers across the length of the bike, transforming it beneath her touch. Solid metal twisted into new and more intimidating configurations. The handlebars took on the semblance of writhing serpents. The front fairing assumed the aspect of a large demonic skull. Blazing sockets flared instead of a headlight. The chrome forks connecting the frame to the front tires turned into taut steel chains. The entire chassis suddenly resembled the sculpted vertebrae of some unearthly beast. The tires ignited into flame, changing into rings of literally burn ing rubber. Bright orange flames crackled above the spinning wheels.

Within seconds, the customized Harley had become something else, a ride unique upon the Earth and else where: the Hellcycle.

Ghost Rider withdrew her hands and mounted the bike. Its supercharged engine snarled like a wild animal as she opened up the throttle and raced away from the lifeless train station. Unlike Wendy Corduroy's involuntary trip here, this time the satanic cycle was firmly under its rider's control. The Hellcycle sped off into the night, leaving behind a melted maelstrom of licking flames and burning asphalt.

The quarry could run, but it couldn't hide.

The Ghost Rider was hot on its trail.


	11. Chapter 11

Eddie Delgado lurked in an alley off Sundance Square. He needed cash-fast-and wasn't too picky about how he got it. He peered around the corner, looking for a likely prospect.

A grin came across his stubble-covered face as he spotted a teenage Goth chick heading down the side walk toward him, no doubt on her way home from a long night of clubbing. Oblivious to her surroundings, she swayed to the rhythm of whatever morbid ditty was playing over her iPod. A tight black T-shirt warned: I LEAVE BITE MARKS. Her frizzy hair was dyed pitch-black. Racoon makeup shadowed her eyes. Her ivory complexion looked like it hadn't seen the sun in ages. A silver ankh dangled on a chain around her neck. Studded wristbands adorned her pudgy arms. Appar ently alone, she had the brick-paved sidewalk to her self.

Eddie's bloodshot eyes zoomed in on the shining Egyptian amulet, as well as the lacy black handbag slung over her shoulder. He wondered how much money she was carrying, and what he might be able to get for her jewelry. Darting back behind the corner, he listened to her footsteps drawing nearer. His fingers tightened on the grip of a rusty Bowie knife. He waited until she came into view, then pounced on her from behind. She yelped in surprise and he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her roughly into the unlit alley.

Eddie slammed her up against a graffiti-covered stone wall. His hefty body pressed against her, pinning her to the wall. He held the knife to her throat, while his free hand yanked the bag from her shoulder. She squirmed helplessly, unable to get away. Some sort of exotic perfume tickled his nostrils.

"Shut up and be still!" he hissed into her ear. "Or I'll kill you!"

Her eyes bulged in terror. She trembled uncontrol lably.

The girl's obvious distress and vulnerability turned Eddie on. He sniffed her hair, inhaling another deep breath of her fragrance, as he considered the possibili ties of this situation. He had only intended to rob this chick, but . . . now that he had her alone in the alley, he found he wanted more than just the contents of her purse. She wasn't bad-looking, once you got past all the spooky Goth crap. Who knew? Maybe he'd even let her live afterward...

The roar of an approaching motorcycle broke into his lustful fantasies. He glanced back over his shoulder, just to make sure they weren't going to be interrupted, and started to haul the teenager deeper into the alley. He froze in his tracks, however, as a skull-headed biker rode past the alley on a flaming chopper.

"What the f-?"

He exchanged a startled look with his victim, who seemed similarly stunned by the bizarre apparition. Did we really just see that?

Maybe he should just grab the girl's money and run?

But it was already too late. The blazing cycle, along with its spectral rider, backed up in front of the alley. The skull-headed biker got off the chopper and stood ominously at the mouth of the filthy passageway. Lam bent flames danced around her fleshless cranium like a demonic halo. Her burning sockets stared at Eddie and his intended victim.

"Oh, crap," the hoodlum muttered. Sensing he had real trouble on his hands, he released the girl, who quickly dashed away from him. She hesitated momentarily between Eddie and the ghostly motorcyclist, uncertain who represented the greater threat, then decided to take her chances with the devil she didn't know. Her awestruck eyes got a good look at the eerie biker as she sprinted past her as quickly as she could manage on her tottering heels. Frantic footsteps receded into the distance, leaving Eddie alone with the rider. The nightmarish entity paid no heed to the girl's departure. Her fearsome gaze remained fixed on the trembling mugger.

Eddie turned and ran, desperate to be anywhere but here. Startled rats scurried beneath an overstuffed garbage dumpster to get out of his way. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. The bottom rung of a rusty metal fire escape beckoned to him, and he jumped onto a trash can to try to reach the hanging ladder. His fingers closed around the painted steel bar and he felt a surge of hope as he started to pull himself upward onto the fire escape.

He was going to get away!

Eddie's blood suddenly turned to ice as the Ghost Rider's skeletal hand grabbed onto the back of his belt. With unbelievable strength, she pulled Eddie back down onto the floor of the alley. She spun the mugger around so that Eddie had no choice but to stare right into the skull's blazing eyes.

In a panic, Eddie stabbed his knife into the monster's shoulder. The blade sliced through Ghost Rider's leather jacket, but was quickly consumed by the hellish flames blazing underneath the leather. Eddie yelped in pain as the knife turned red-hot. Molten metal dripped onto the pavement. He hastily dropped the knife, leaving him unarmed and defenseless before the wrath of the ghastly avenger.

It was the single most terrifying moment of Eddie Delgado's pathetic life. It got worse as the Ghost Rider pronounced judgment on his wretched soul:

"Guilty."

The burning skull was only inches away from Eddie's own face. He tried to tear his eyes away, but the cavernous black sockets seemed to suck him in. At first, he saw only the plutonic flames burning where the skull's eyes should have been, but, within a heartbeat, faces began to appear within the roiling fires.

The faces of all the men, women, and children he had ever abused over the course of his short, brutal existence.

He recognized the wrinkled Russian widow he had mugged on her way home from church, the four-eyed geek he had beaten the crap out of in junior high, the asshole he'd stabbed in that bar fight, the ex-girlfriend he used to slap around, the witness he'd crippled for testifying against him, the "dates" he had forced himself upon, the yuppie tourists whose bodies would never be found, the homeless guy he set on fire, the fags whom he and his buddies had put in the hospital that one time, and so many others, more than he could even re member, names and faces that he thought he had long forgotten. The endless string of victims blurred into a gory montage of pain and suffering. Their pitiful cries and whimpers echoed inside his own skull, adding to the downward spiral of his already-slipping sanity.

"Your soul is stained by the blood of the innocent," Ghost Rider declared. "Feel their pain. ..."

The tortured faces merged into a single contorted visage that Eddie almost didn't recognize as his own. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that escaped his lungs was a thin, plaintive whistle, like the air being let out of leaky tire. His limbs refused to move. He felt paralyzed from the neck down.

"... A hundredfold."

All at once, Eddie felt every act of violence, every evil he had ever committed, revisited upon him . . . with interest. A phantom knife twisted in his gut, in visible blows rained down on him, illusory flames seared his skin. Every inch of his body cried out in torment. A lifetime's worth of fear and guilt left his con science raw and bleeding.

He dropped onto the trash-strewn floor of the alley. Shuddering from head to toe, he curled up into a fetal position. A low moan keened from his lips.

Eddie Delgado's glassy eyes stared inward into what remained of his soul, reliving his copious sins forever-more.

Ghost Rider left him lying there.

A wrought-iron fence surrounded the old cemetery, which was several miles west of the urban metroplex. Weathered tombstones and mausoleums rose from the parched soil. Tall grass and weeds clotted the over grown graveyard. Dawn was rising as Ghost Rider motored up to the open gate, drawn by a powerful compulsion she didn't fully understand. The Hellcycle's engine began to sputter as the sun's rays fell upon the infernal chopper.

Night, and night alone, was the Rider's rightful domain.

The Hellcycle chugged to a halt just inside the cemetery. Ghost Rider stumbled off the bike and tottered woozily upon her feet. An overpowering weakness washed over her in conjunction with the rising sun. She reached out for a nearby headstone, hoping to steady herself, but her strength evaporated with the dawn. She toppled forward onto the ground, hitting the earth with a clatter of bones. Unwilling to relinquish her hold on existence, she crawled across the graveyard, dragging herself towards the shade of a large marble monument. Her flaming aura began to sputter weakly.

The merciless sunlight brought on a bizarre transformation. Fresh skin spread over the naked skull. Thick red hair sprouted from her bony dome. The burning embers within her eye sockets congealed into confused emerald orbs. It was like watching a burning cadaver de compose in reverse. The eldritch flames died out.

Wendy Corduroy lifted her shaky head from the ground. Bleary-eyed, she looked about in confusion. She tried to lift her from the dirt, but exhaustion overcame her. Her trembling limbs would not support her and she collapsed onto the earth. Her eyelids drooped shut.

The sound of a shovel striking the ground, only a few inches away from her head, briefly roused her. Wendy looked up to see a tall, masculine figure loom ing over her, leaning against the handle of the shovel. Silhouetted against the rising sun, the man's feature's were obscured by the glare, but Wendy got an impression of a grizzled cowboy who looked like he had just stepped out of an old Louis L'Amour novel, minus the Stetson hat.

"Well, well, well. That was a sight I never thought I'd live to see. Heh, mornin', bonehead."

His gruff voice sounded distinctly unimpressed, and . . . . . extremely familiar.

Who?

Wendy passed out at the man's feet.


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing Wendy Corduroy saw upon waking was an angel hovering over her. She blinked at the sur real image, then realized that she was staring up at a stained-glass portrait of St. Michael, complete with heavenly wings and a flaming sword. Looking around, she discovered that she was lying on a cot inside a dimly lit shack. An open door looked out upon a dilapidated old graveyard that he vaguely remembered from the night before.

Her head was pounding with the mother of all hang overs and her mouth felt as dry as the Mojave. Sitting up, she found a half dozen glasses of water lined up on a bedside table. She gratefully chugged the water down. It helped ... a little.

Confused and disoriented, she rolled off the cot and onto his feet. She started to stand up, only to be over come by a sudden wave of dizziness. The shack seemed to spin around her and she hurriedly dropped back down onto the cot. She sat with her head between her knees, waiting for the spinning sensation to stop. Wincing in pain, she realized that she hurt like hell, like she'd been hit by a truck.

Maybe she had.

The dizziness passed and she stood up again. This time she managed to stay upright, although her head still felt like it was burning up. Looking for answers, she staggered out of the shack.

Crumbling marble monuments populated the cemetery grounds. Old-fashioned tombstones, their inscriptions half worn away by the passage of time, jutted from the earth at odd angles, like teeth badly in need of orthodontia. The large brick shack, with its stained-glass windows and shingled roof, squatted amidst the crypts and headstones. A crude timber cross was plastered to one side of the shack. A heavy wooden door guarded its interior. High grass threatened to overrun the cemetery, which had definitely seen better days. The whole place had a distinctly Boot Hill vibe.

Dirt and gravel clattered on the ground nearby. Wendy looked over to see an older man digging a grave a few yards away. Dusty brown work clothes covered the man's tall, rangy frame. A cowboy hat protected his grizzled face from the hot afternoon sun and was positioned to where Wendy couldn't see his face, a bandana tied around his neck. A small silver cross dangled on a chain from his open vest. He scooped up another load of dirt with his shovel and tossed it to one side. Wendy dimly remembered seeing this same man earlier, right before she lost consciousness.

A thousand questions rushed through Wendy's brain. Where am I? What am I doing here? Fevered memories of hellfire and demons and unearthly vengeance flashed across her mind. She looked anxiously at her hands, half expecting to see nothing but naked bones emerging from her sleeves. Her fingers explored the con tours of her face, relieved to feel the warm skin covering her skull. That was just a nightmare, right? Nothing that really happened.

Did it?

The sunlight hurt her eyes.

"You alright?" the old-timer asked, observing her discomfort. He turned away from the grave, still clutching his shovel with both hands, and lifted his hat. Wendy gasped in shock.

"No way," she shook her head. She knew him, of course. She had seem him many times. In a different life. In a different... hat.

"Hey kiddo," Grunkle Stanford Pines grinned at her, bobbing the rim of his hat to her. "Long time no see."

She couldn't believe it. This man, like many others from her past, gathering around her like missing pieces to a puzzle. Stanford Pines, her previous boss at Gravity Falls and one of the few people that see could have ever called fatherly beside her own father. The man was gruff, tough, and full of complaints. Had she thought about it, she would have expected him to have probably passed one. Last she knew he was sixty or so. Maybe fifty if his genetic line was nice to him.

Yet he hadn't aged a day.

"You alright there?" he repeated, and jabbed the dirt with that shovel. "Or are you just going to stare at me like you've seen a ghost."

Wendy shrugged. "I'm good." Perspiration dotted her brow. "Feels like my skull's on fire. But I'm good."

Stan chuckled to himself.

"Did I say something funny?" Wendy asked irritably.

"Not funny, ironic." Silver hair hung beneath the brim of the man's hat, matching his bushy mustache and beard. Gravedust accumulated in the deep creases of his face. "We're big on irony here. You know; me, graves, good stuff."

Stan ambled toward Wendy, still toting his dirt-stained shovel.

"Stan," she shook some of the dirt off her shoulders as she looked at him, now just slightly taller than him, if not just an inch or so, "what the heck are you doing here? The shack-"

"Ah, that's not my job anymore," Stan grumbled and shrugged. "It was time Soos had some taste of responsibility."

"Soos?" she gasped and chuckled, "he's running the shack now!?"

"And doing well by my telling. He keeps sending me these crazy postcards about stuff the twins keep discovering up in the woods," Stan reached inside his vest and pulled out three post cards and quickly thumbed through them.

"The twins still visit Gravity Falls?" she asked him.

"We all do. I know Dipper actually lives there. Don't know about Mabel. But every once in a while I got to move my lazy but across the country, otherwise I might as well dig one of these open, fall in and get cozy," Grunkle Stan grumbled to her. His eyes gazed over her dust covered leather and her shoes. A smile half way to sarcastic grew on his lips. "Looks like I was right."

"About?"

"You."

Wendy chuckled and looked away. "I wouldn't say I'm doing good."

"Didn't say good," Stan corrected her, "just said you're surviving."

She shook her head and looked around. Something was missing from her vision. The bike. The sentient stead of metal and fire that carried her here. "Where's my bike?" she asked him.

Stan jerked his head behind him, indicating a shack. Wendy started walking toward the shack, wanting to check on the bike for herself. She wondered how far she was from his loft back in Fort Worth. Home was sounding better and better. Home and ...

Dipper! she thought. The poor kid had just been sitting there by the table when she had gotten up and ran out. Better for him, she supposed, as she doubted that any person she knew would have wanted to see her transformation. Hell, she never wanted to see it again. Dipper probably just sat there all night, feeling like a pile of crap, like he usually would when something out of his control happened. Damn it! She had one night to really get something going between that cute, good looking, smart like a razor kid, and Wendy probably blew it. She pondered the horror show her life had just become.

Maybe it's just as well.

Stan gave Wendy a stern look. He wasn't done with her yet.

"You're the Rider, kid. Get used to it. It's easier that way. If you don't ..." He gestured toward the open grave. ". . . got a cozy spot picked out for you."

"I'm... wait, what?" she asked him.

"A rider."

"How..." she stared at him, uncertain how to phrase the three or four questions that barreled through her head at once.

"This is me, we're talking about here, kiddo," Stanford told her, "I'm kind of the one who started the fashion of knowing more than I let on."

Wendy decided she'd heard enough. All she wanted was to get out of here and forget that any of this had ever happened. She circled around the shack to where her bike was standing amidst the underbrush. A heavy chain was wrapped around the sissy bar at the rear of the saddle.

Stan followed her around the shack. He seemed intent on making Wendy fully aware of the cold, cruel realities of her new existence. Who knew what his motive was now.

"They've seen you now. They know what to expect. You'll need my help if you expect to last the night."

Wendy was dubious. "No offense, but the last time I let a stranger help me, it didn't pan out so good."

"You're calling Dipper a stranger, are you?" Stan poked at her wall.

"I-" Wendy stalled and stared angrily at him. "It wasn't his fault, but it... it's in the past." She climbed onto her bike and fired up the engine.

"This isn't something you can run from, Wendy." Stan rammed his shovel into the dirt. "This day's been coming ever since you made that deal."

Despite herself, Wendy instantly recalled that long-ago evening in the ice-cold maintenance tent. Her fingertip tingled where the stranger's parchment had sliced through her flesh the night before Daniel Corduroy died. She started to ride away, then looked back over her shoulder. Maybe Stan knew what he was talking about? He sure seemed to know enough about how this nightmare got started.

"Know more than you let on?" she asked him. Stanford Pines smile communicated miles more than his words needed to. Wendy hit the brakes and killed the motor.

"Congratulations," Stan said laconically. "Your chances just went from none to slim."

* * *

><p>Yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off the train station, keeping out the competing news teams mobbing around the site. Dipper stood in front of the tape, with the antiquated depot positioned behind him, as he held up his microphone and spoke directly into the camera.<p>

". . . sources close to the investigation confirm that there may be links between what happened here in the downtown historic district and the 'Fallen Angels' massacre in the desert outside the city."

"And we're out," his cameraman announced. He looked away from the viewfinder and gave Dipper the "okay" sign.

Dipper lowered his mike and looked around. There had to be more to this story, he guessed, than the police were letting on. Why would a rival biker gang want to murder the night manager at an obsolete old train depot? He was grateful for the potential scoop; it gave him something to concentrate on besides Wendy's strange behavior last night.

An older man with gray hair and a severe expression was leaving the site. He recognized Captain Gerard Dolan of the Fort Worth Police Department, whom he had interviewed once before. Signaling the cameraman to follow him, he hustled toward him, mike in hand. The cameraman hurried after Dipper, already starting filming.

"Captain Dolan?" He caught up with the veteran cop just as he stepped past the yellow tape. A rumpled suit and tie distinguished Dolan from the uniformed officers under his command. She shoved his mike toward him. "Dipper Pines-"

"No comment," he said brusquely. Judging from his expression, he wasn't having a good day.

Dipper wasn't taking no for an answer. "Is it true they've found a connection between the Biker Bar Massacre and last night's victim found here in the train yards?"

"No comment." Dolan glowered at the camera in his face.

Dipper waved the cameraman away. Getting the message, he switched the camera off. "Look, off the record, okay?"

"Off the record?" Dolan looked Dipper in the eye. "Fuck off."

He turned and stalked toward a waiting patrol car.

Asshole, Dipper thought. "I have friends in the department, ya know. ..."

"I'm not one of them," Dolan snapped.

A younger detective scurried over to the captain, clutching a manila folder. Dipper was almost positive his name was Jace. Jace Murdock, he thought. Clean-cut and neatly groomed, he looked less irascible than his boss. He'd had heard about him from some of the local stringers. Energetic and ambitious, was the word on the street.

"Forensics on the bikers and stationmaster came back with the exact same cause of death," he reported eagerly. He handed the folder to his boss, who paused to leaf through the lab reports. Dolan squinted at the bottom line.

" 'Sulfur poisoning'?" he read aloud. His brow fur rowed in confusion. "I didn't think sulfur was toxic."

"It is in massive doses," Jace explained. "And these stiffs are swimming in it. Could be evidence of a chemical attack?"

"Or a religious nut," Dipper interjected.

The two cops turned around to find the reporter standing right behind him. Dolan obviously thought he had already left him behind. Sometimes it pays to have a light step, Dipper thought, especially when you need to listen in on something you weren't meant to hear.

Jace's eyes widened at the sight of the newsman. "Hey, I know you!" he blurted. "I've seen you on the news and other stations alot! Man, my sister would love to meet you. But I don't think she could see you considering that she's blind. And always busy."

"Huh," Dipper said, amused. "What's your sister do?"

"She's a lawyer. Her name's-"

"Murdock." Dolan said, silencing the man. He reluctantly turned to deal with Dipper. "There's nothing here to suggest any kind of religious M.O."

Dipper disagreed. "The sulfur," he pointed out. "Or, as it was known back in the day, brimstone."

He savored the policemen's flummoxed expressions. It amused him that neither man had made the satanic connection yet.

How's that for investigative reporting?

* * *

><p>Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of Stan's shack. Lighted candles dispelled whatever shadows remained, revealing spartan quarters that boasted little in the way of modern appliances or convenience's. The meager furnishings included a cot, an old-fashioned roll-top desk, and a wood-burning stove that probably saw little use during the summer. An un finished game of solitaire rested atop a plain wooden table. A calendar, showcasing the Western art of Fred eric Remington, was pinned to one wall. There was no TV, no computer, no telephone, no air-conditioning. A pot of water simmered upon hot plate. A horseshoe was nailed over the door. The whole place had an austere, almost monastic feel to it.<p>

Wendy guessed that Stan didn't get out much these days.

The biker's leather jacket was draped over the back of the antique wooden chair she was sitting on. Her left sleeve was rolled up as far as it would go. A bloody gash scarred her shoulder. She vaguely recalled a crazed hoodlum stabbing her with a knife. The injury hadn't affected Ghost Rider at all, but this morning Wendy was definitely feeling it. The ugly wound throbbed painfully.

"The Rider is the Devil's bounty hunter," Stan explained as he tended to Wendy's shoulder. Hydrogen peroxide stung like fire as he cleaned out the wound. "Sent to hunt down anything that escapes from Hell." He held up a stainless steel needle. "Sterilize this for me."

Wendy eyed the needle. She remembered the hellfire that she had wielded as Ghost Rider, how it had flowed from her body into her chain and motorcycle, infusing them with demonic power. She tentatively reached out and pressed her finger against the needle.

Nothing happened.

Stan chuckled and nodded toward the hot plate. "Try the boiling water."

Feeling slightly embarrassed, Wendy got up and dipped the tip of the needle into the water bubbling in the dented tin pot. She handed the needle back to Stan. How am I supposed to know what the rules are? she thought defensively. None of this makes any sense!

Except that it did.

Stan spelled it out for her. "During the day, you'll be normal. But at night, in the presence of evil, the Rider takes over." He attached a slender thread to the needle and started to stitch up the gash. Wendy flinched and groaned slightly at the sudden pain, but didn't pull away. She bit down on her lower lip as the older man continued his explanation.

"The last time was one hundred and fifty years ago, in a little Mexican village called San Venganza. Used to be a nice town, nice people, until a stranger came along promising wealth and prosperity, one deal at a time. One fella pricks his finger and signs, gets rich. Others see that, they sign, too. Everyone signs." He sighed in recollection. "But pretty soon nobody loves nuthin' but what's in their pocket, or their neighbor's pocket, or their neighbor's bed. ..."

He pulled the thread taut and kept on stitching. Wendy ignored the pain, caught up in the narrative. She knew just what kind of deals Stan was talking about, and she had a pretty good idea sje knew who the stranger was, too. The name popped into her brain from last night's encounter at the train station- Blackheart had called the Devil "Mephistopheles."

It was as good a name as any.

"Where evil lives," Stan went on, "nothing grows. No crops, no trees, no children. The town's dying. The well runs dry. They curse the stranger with their dying breaths, their cursed souls trapped forever in that godforsaken place."

Wendy could believe it. Sounds like the people of San Venganza got screwed over in the deal the same way I did. Daniel Corduroy's untimely death still haunted her dreams.

"What does this have to do with Blackheart?" she asked.

"Blackheart?" Stan froze in mid-stitch, taken aback by the name. "He sent you after Blackheart?"

Wendy nodded. "Along with some others."

"The Hidden," Stan guessed, his expression grim. "Fallen angels cast out of Heaven by St. Michael himself." He glanced up at the stained-glass window. He finished stitching up the wound and bit off the end of the thread; obviously he'd done this before. "You should stay here. They can't set foot on hallowed ground."

Wendy wondered if that was why Stan moved here. How did he know all this? What was his involvement in this whole business anyway? What's his stake in all this?

"Great," Wendy said sarcastically. "I feel so much better now that I know I'm the Devil's bounty hunter." She got up and put her jacket back on.

Stan frowned. "Where are you going?"

"There's someone I got to see," Wendy said. I have to talk to Dipper one more time, if only to say good bye.

"That's a bad idea," Stan said.

Wendy shrugged. "Wouldn't be my first."

She headed for the door. Stan followed her out into the graveyard, where her bike stood waiting. Wendy worried that the Stan might try to physically stop her from leaving, but he seemed to sense that Wendy's mind was made up. She was grateful that the old gravedigger respected her decision.

"Hey," Stan said just as Wendy was about to climb onto the bike. She turned around to see what the other man wanted. "Why'd you do it, kid? Why'd you make the deal?"

Wendy didn't want to get into it. "I was just a kid."

"What'd you get in return?" Stan asked.

That was an easy one.

"Heartache," Wendy replied.


End file.
